Offending the Vulgar
by SpikeFlecker
Summary: In this Spiderman inspired story, Tom Jones (alias Peter Parker) is suffering from the traumatic events of The Chimera Within, and meanwhile has managed to make some powerful enemies. If Tom and Gwen Stacy are to survive, they will need to work together, and call on the assistance of a few talented friends. Look for Punisher, Daredevil, Fantastic Four, Felicia and Elektra.
1. The Itsy Bitsy Spider

**Insomnia Journal: Entry 1 - 3:23 a.m.**

The sound of the wind. The dankness of my room. The unending thoughts and memories that race through my mind. This is now the fifth night where I have not been able to sleep. The nights are long and so, so boring. I've tried drinking until I can't see straight, but that does not help me to get actual rest. Watching TV only helps me to count half hours, while I watch mindless drivel as the clock ticks by. I try to read, and while I used to enjoy a good novel, now I can't concentrate, and the characters and plots become disconnected words while my undisciplined mind drifts into less pleasant introspection.

I need a change. I need a sunburn. I need to feel something. I need

* * *

As the biology professor droned on with his lecture, Tom Jones finally felt like he would be able to get some sleep. His head bobbed, and he shamelessly gave in and shut his eyes. He had tried to choose an inconspicuous seat in the back row, but the rumblings of his snores offended the ears of Professor Blankewiscz, and he cruelly interrupted Tom's much needed slumber, to the great delight of the class, sending ripples of snickers and laughter around the room.

"Are we greatly intruding on your nap time, young man?"

"Not at all," Tom's head snapped to attention as his classmate elbowed him.

"Perhaps it is because you find yourself truly out of your depth, as a science major?"

"I am sorry, sir. I actually find your passion for the subject of evolutionary development to be somewhat comforting," Tom said sitting up and trying to wipe the sleep from his eyes, "and I suppose that relaxes me."

The professor gave a wry smile. "I suppose that is a backhanded way of calling me boring. Well forgive me. It was my mistake, though done with the purest of motives. I was respectfully trying to stimulate your young minds. It is true, I may have used some big words, but that's why your laptops come equipped with a dictionary, is it not? In other words, I was giving you the benefit of the doubt that you would rise to the challenge, to leave my class feeling more intelligent for having been here. But I can see in overestimating you, I have been very much mistaken."

"No professor, it's not your fault that I don't feel smarter after walking out of here," replied Tom, dryly. "But to arrive at the conclusion that I lost interest in your lecture because I didn't understand it, that would be the leap, I'm afraid. No, your current fifty-five minute lecture can be summed up in the concept that altruism and selfishness are behavioural, not subjective, and is part of our genetic programming, which is now being overcome by what amounts to an extreme version of free will."

"Well, that is somewhat of a simplification…"

"Hardly anything new or inspiring. Thomas Hobbes explained altruism as enlightened self-interest, like 350 years ago, so I'm not entirely sure why you thought you would blow our minds with this regurgitation of standard western philosophy."

"Now, listen to me you impertinent young-"

"And why do you insist on disapproving any everyday phrases in your speech? If you really cared about making yourself understood, then try expressing yourself in a concise manner, with clear, fresh imagery. Is this your way of expressing your intelligence with your knowledge of the English language? Would you therefore conclude that if someone did not speak English well, they were less intelligent?"

"Don't put words in my mouth…"

"And while I was able to have a very restful sleep during your constant blathering, I did enjoy your offhanded remark that 'American political opportunities are heavily loaded against those who are simultaneously intelligent and honest.' You probably should have mentioned devastatingly good looking as well, if you're trying to use your career failures as a platform for veiled bragging."

"That's enough!" screamed Blankewiscz.

"But I did enjoy something you said," continued Tom, unintimidated. "Your explanation of the selfish gene theory as expounded by Richard Dawkins would certainly explain my own lack of sympathy I'm feeling, or not feeling, these days. Since I don't have any children, I have no need to selfishly preserve my own genes. And here," he said with a dry chuckle, "I just thought I was becoming a psychopath."

Blankewiscz looked like he was about to blow a gasket. "Now I perceive that you are obfuscating the issue with typical creationist red herrings."

"Creationist? You take that back. I am certainly not in any way a creationist. Personally I don't believe in creationism, fascism or any other isms for that matter. To quote the wise philosopher Ferris Bueller, 'Ism's in my opinion, are not good. A person should not believe in an ism, he should believe in himself.' And red herrings? Come on, seriously. I barely understand what that means. You're just trying to confuse me again with a worn-out metaphor that you barely understand yourself. I'll tell you what I believe. Evolution, if that even is the correct understanding of human development, has stalled, and unless we use the technology and knowledge that we have at our fingertips, our species and our very existence is under very real threat. We have to improve our genetic code, not through eugenics, but through cooperation, selfless effort, and innovative thinking. Nothing can be accomplished or achieved to improve our situation if all we're thinking about is the preservation of our lifestyle or increasing the profits for the coming fiscal year."

Blankewiscz cleared his throat as if he was talking to an ill-mannered child. "And how do you propose improving our genetic code? Should we not work with what evolution has handed to us?"

"No! The whole point of technology is improving our situation and giving us some sort of advantage. We can't eat raw meat, so should our ancestors have shown their disdain for the technology of fire and artificial heat? Now _you're_ being ridiculous. No what I'm saying is, if we can modify our DNA to be more disease resistant, or recover more efficiently from an injury, then should we not pursue that?"

Tom looked around to the class. He failed to find any support. Most of his classmates looked down at their laptops in a sort of embarrassment. Others mocked him with their stares and their grins. Tom sat back in his seat in resignation, trying to get some more sleep while Blankewiscz launched into a tirade of scorn and ridicule aimed at Tom's intelligence.

'I'm getting too old for this sort of thing,' he thought.

As Tom packed up his backpack to rush out of class, an imposing figure tried to block his path. Not in the mood for more confrontation, Tom just put his head down and knocked him out of the way.

"Hey! Watch where you're going, punk!"

Tom tried to ignore his accuser, but the muscular winner of the National Football Foundation Scholar-Athlete Award, was not accustomed to being snubbed. "Hey! I said I was talking to you!" He grabbed Tom's shoulder, who without thinking, grabbed his hand off his shoulder, and with one swift motion spun around, putting the jock's thumb in a Krav Maga finger lock. With slight pressure against his thumb, the big jock was brought to his knees. "Okay, you have my attention. What do you want?" he said, easing up on the pressure on the guy's digits.

"Alright! Jeez, you're crazy! What's wrong with you?" asked 'Flash' Thompson.

"Well you may have all the time in the world to piss away, Eugene, I unfortunately have somewhere I need to be," replied Tom, releasing him and turning to go. "Maybe we can get into what in fact is wrong with me some other time. But I thank you for your interest."

"Why do you always have to act so damn superior?" said Flash, still rubbing his hand.

Tom paused and looked back at Flash, examining his features. Flash was probably not a bad guy, although he did enjoy a laugh at other's expense. Flash had been blessed with it all: rich family, athleticism, and even sufficient study skills to earn an MBA, if he kept at his current pace. He was an all-around all-star, and was already used to commanding respect. Tom tried to search his own feelings. Flash hadn't really done anything to earn to be treated with such rudeness, and Tom thought that he should experience some sort of remorse for treating him so. But Tom felt nothing, neither pity, nor affinity, nor guilt. So in response to Flash's question, he simply stated, "It's not an act," and he walked away.


	2. The Punisher

The Punisher

As Frank Castle stepped off the plane and entered the terminal of JFK, his senses were on full alert knowing his name was still high on the Kingpin's hitlist. As his cold blue eyes reflexively scanned the vicinity, he immediately made four faces of death. His mental mug-file quickly identified Sam "Pop-pop" Chianti, a contract specialist in the Manhattan-based Gambella Family. He was unfamiliar with the other three beyond the fact that everything about them screamed Mafia soldiers.

Castle casually made his way through the crowd toward the helicopter station of Manhattan Airways, as his ever vigilant eyes scanned his pursuers from behind the inscrutability of his dark aviator glasses. One of the younger guys must have been a newbie to this kind of hit, as he openly held out his phone, scanning the faces of the passers-by, comparing them to the photo he had on the screen. He was having no luck, when Chianti nodded to him, giving him the signal that their quarry had been spotted. Soon, Castle could make out in his peripheral vision that he had the four of them tagging behind him now, unbunching and fanning out like wranglers in a roundup.

This of course, was not Castle's first rodeo, and he was a much cooler customer than these wise guys were accustomed to. Without betraying any hurry in his step or visibly turning his head, Castle kept a mark on Chianti's position on his right flank, while the other three could be counted on to be efficiently crisscrossing the crowd to cover any possible angle of escape, maintaining a rear seal while keeping a discreet distance.

While Castle may not have betrayed any signs of panic or the adrenalin that was starting to pump through his veins, his face did harden into an even more grim expression than his stone features usually wore. It was time for battle.

Because of the high security of airports, Castle had been forced to abandon his hardware in Heathrow, taking the gamble that the enemy may not confront him until he had cleared the area and had the opportunity to hit one of his weapons caches. Sometimes gambles pay off, but that's the risk. They often don't. Now he had to think fast on how to get out this scenario, unarmed and with no collateral damage.

Years of training and experience in combat were beginning to take over Castle's instincts. Chianti began to close the gap between them, thinking he was pouncing on an unwary prey. "You ready to die, Sam?" asked Castle coldly, without breaking pace nor turning his head.

Caught off guard, the assassin turned around, to see if by chance the remark was directed to somebody else nearby. Castle was rounding a corner to the helicopter station. The flustered Chianti moved a step too close going into the turn. Castle's arm moved in a sudden blur, his topcoat that he had draped over his arm whipping across the Mafioso's face, while Castle's elbow slammed solidly into his mark.

Chianti's breath left him with a whooshing gurgle. A short-barreled .38 revolver which had momentarily occupied his hand disappeared as suddenly as it arrived and dropped into Castle's waiting pocket as though the transfer had been a carefully rehearsed one. Castle's hammering forearm chopped into his opponent's throat, causing him to stagger back into the fast moving stream of pedestrian traffic. As he hit the floor, causing great confusion and a sudden obstruction at the gates to the heli-pad,

Castle was able to slip through the crowd undetected while everyone else's attention was diverted to the man on the ground. He snapped a backward glance as he crowded into the waiting helicopter and quickly located two anxious faces in the pileup at the boarding gate. The doors closed behind him as Castle found a seat. Moments later the big ferry craft was lifting into the air. Through the window Castle could see 'Pop-Pop,' panting and his face red with rage and frustration while he talked rapidly into his cellphone.

Castle sighed and fingered Chianti's .38 through the fabric of his jacket. So now it was a race. The chopper would be putting down in midtown Manhattan in a few minutes. No doubt, another welcoming party had been alerted and was scrambling to get there ahead of him.

The Midtown Station was perched atop a skyscraper not far from Grand Central. The ungainly craft settled onto the rooftop landing pad and Castle was the first passenger to the door. He showed the crew man his pistol and told him, "Go ahead and open the door, but don't let anyone out for one full minute. There might be some gun play when I hit that roof. Understand?"

The crew man's face went pale. He nodded.

"Is the escape hatch forward, same as on the military version?"

Again he solicited a nod from the crew member.

"Okay. Remember, one full minute." Castle found the emergency exit in the floor, opened it, and dropped to the roof of the building while the rotors were still chugging overhead. He swung out beneath the belly and ran for the steps to the elevator area.

In his peripheral vision, he saw a large man with both arms extended step from behind a brick are directly opposite the landing pad, and at the same moment a heavy-caliber handgun began to fire. Whistling slugs tore across Castle's path and ploughed into a ventilator housing just in front of him. The shooter was targeting him from a firing-range stance, one hand grasping and steadying the gun wrist as he continued to coolly squeeze off round after round.

Castle snap-fired two running shots from the .38, both missing but close enough to send the gunman scurrying for cover. A confusion of shouted commands and the sounds of running feet accompanied Castle to the stairway which led to the raised deck, where a little guy with a big gun appeared at the top just as Castle was starting up. The man at the top tried to dodge but Castle's instinctive trigger had already dispatched an untidy hole directly between the retreating eyes. The gun went over the railing as the small man flopped onto the stairway. Castle stepped aside to be clear of the falling body, then raced to the top as a thick voice from below called up to him, "You ain't got a chance, Castle! We got you sealed up on this roof!"

Castle didn't doubt the truth of that warning for a moment. But he wasn't dead yet. He sprinted across the raised area, then launched himself into a rolling dive as an assortment of pistols began unloading on him from the elevator shelter. He took a searing hit in the meaty part of his shoulder, then another burned across the flesh of his hip. Firing from the prone, Castle squeezed off three deliberate shots into the crouching figures at the elevator, toppling them like dummies in a shooting gallery. Then he tried to sneer away the pain from his wounds as he lurched to his feet for a showdown with final remaining obstacle to freedom. The guy was bent forward at the waist, a big auto-loader thrust out in front of him, and he was wildly jerking the trigger against an empty or jammed magazine, slowly backing into the elevator car.

Castle transferred the now useless .38 into his equally useless and dangling left hand, and he closed in after the quickly dissolving seal. Panic seized the mafioso's face as he threw down the automatic and raised his hands to the back of his head. He croaked, "Jeez, Castle, I-"

Castle's good right hand shot out to grab the guy's tie and he catapulted him out of the way in an arcing swing from the throat just as another group charged to the top of the stairway from the helicopter area. The guy was dancing around just outside the elevator, trying to keep his footing against the wild eviction fling. Guns thundered from the stairway and the Mafioso's dancing took on a freakish quality as he gracefully stopped the hot missiles meant for Castle. The elevator doors, closing, also intercepted a grouping of sizzling metal. Soon the car was in motion and Castle was alone with his empty revolver and a steadily building pain in his shoulder. The pistol slipped away from his numbed fingers to the floor, followed by bright scarlet drops as blood ran down his arm. He wadded a handkerchief and jammed it roughly inside his shirt, holding it tightly and grinding his teeth through the discomfort.

Castle made it down to the street and was desperately looking for somewhere he could duck away and rest his wounds. He had carefully cleaned up some wet splotched of spilled blood on the stairway as he exited the building, taking care not to leave a trail.

His arm was beginning to stiffen, his coat sleeve was soaked, and the bleeding was not stopping. His shoulder was not hurting much now. That was a bad sign, Also his legs were getting rubbery and his eyes were becoming unreliable. He was going to lose consciousness, and would soon be fair game to the death crews or the cops that would now be on his trail. He stumbled against a wall and threw his good hand out to steady himself where found a doorknob and pushed open a frosted glass door. Artful letters welcomed entrance to Xanadu Health Spa.

Castle pushed on inside just as his legs gave way altogether and the floor of the office floated up to receive him. A feminine voice squealed something in an alarmed falsetto, as shapely legs ran over to stand over him. As he looked to try to see the face, he realized that excited chattering in Mandarin was going back and forth from many voices.

As he tried to whisper a warning to not be found with him, he was able to see a beautiful face with a concerned smile as he descended into the beckoning darkness.

Tom stood back near a grove of trees, as a minister said a few words to a group of some fifty people gathered at the graveside. The sun shone brightly on the mourners in their black dress, and Tom held his hat in his hands respectfully, but maintained wearing his sunglasses. He wanted to avoid drawing attention to himself as much as possible, especially from the Oscorp employees in attendance.

Tom's gaze drifted over to the family. Dr. Peter Möbius had left behind four children; three daughters and a boy, as well as a grieving widow. Tom had never met Peter's wife before, and even in her grief she was a strikingly attractive woman. Tom thought her to be at least in her late forties, early-fifties, yet she moved with the vigour and agility of a fit woman half her age. Under her veiled black bereavement hat, her blonde hair reached to her shoulders, and as she bent down to place Peter's ashes in a hole in the ground, the shining tears were visibly rolling down the tight skin of her face and cheekbones, which Tom could observe even at some distance.

He had not planned on speaking to anyone at Peter's funeral; there were far too many enemies present. But he had grown to respect Peter highly in the time that he had known him, and having spent the last week of his life together he had come to view him as a good friend. So Tom felt he owed those memories enough to at least be present to pay his respects, but now he unexpectedly felt moved to share his condolences with Peter's wife. After all, aren't funerals really about the family, to show them how much of an impact the deceased had on the living?

In a forced effort at appearing casual, Tom made his way to the receiving line where the people shared their sympathy with the family members. Tom tried to keep his expressions ordinary and unmemorable: "Very sorry for your loss," or something like that. But despite his best efforts to shake hands and slip away unnoticed in the crowd, Mrs. Möbius held onto his hand in both of hers and refused to let go.

"Thank you for coming," she said. "I remember you."

"I don't believe I've had the pleasure of meeting you before, Mrs. Möbius."

"But Peter talked about you. You're Tom, aren't you?"

"Yes I am, ma'am."

"And you were there with Peter, on the island."

"I was, yes."

"I would love to be able to talk to you more later. Are you coming to the luncheon?"

"I'm afraid I won't be able to, no."

"What a pity. You're probably very busy, in university and as an intern. But if you could find some time, in the next little while, please come by the house for a cup of tea. I can't tell how much that would mean to me, to talk more and really get to know the important people in his life. Do you think you could do that for me? I would appreciate it so very, very much."

Tom smiled slightly. How could he say no? "It would be my pleasure, Mrs. Möbius."

"Please. Call me Felicia," she said, warmly squeezing his hand.


	3. The Spider a Web, and Man Friendship

_The bird a nest, the spider a web, man friendship -_

 _William Blake_

 **Insomnia Journal: Entry 2 - 4:14 a.m.**

As I lie awake in my room, I said good-night to New York, because I've been up for 38 hours and it don't look like sleep's coming soon. Because I could be crushed like a spider. It seems like the daylight is coming and no one is watching but me. But I don't mind the dark discovering the day, because the night is a beautiful bright blue and grey. But what brings me down is love, or my lack thereof. But it's a dangerous hour, for a heart on a wire. So I put my head on the ground, and the sky is a wheel. But I don't mind that the days have gone, rolling in the waves. You know, this sunlight feels warm on my face today. But more than anything, I hate to sleep alone. I guess I can't get enough of love.

* * *

Whatever Tom had in front of him; be it schoolwork, a project from Oscorp, or some sort of personal responsibility, he found himself fighting a losing balance against lack of interest, inability to concentrate, and general contempt for anything that dared to intrude on his personal time.

Not surprisingly, his grades were slipping, and while he wasn't in danger of losing his position at Oscorp as laboratory head quite yet, he was slowly sliding in a downward spiral of loss of respect amongst his colleagues.

To top off everything, Tom found himself greatly missing Mariah of everyone. Of course, he missed Gwen as well, and he wished that he could just bury his face in April's shoulder and cry away the world. But none of that was on the table. With all of the bad decisions that he had made over the past year, the outcome that he found the most paralyzing was a crushing guilt. But in one of his rare dreams that he still enjoyed once in a while, was that everyone that he had done wrong found it in themselves to forgive him. He wished for all the world that he could call Mariah and say, 'Hey how are you doing? Your life is right on track? You got your health? That's just super. Well, you know what? Let me tell you there Mariah, I'm doing alright these days.'

Tom would have loved to be able to leave Oscorp. The problem was that he had nowhere to go. But he decided to keep his options open and jump at an opportunity when it presented itself. In the meantime, Tom was in search of something to occupy his treacherous mind.

Normally when Tom heard his phone ring, he swore softly to himself, thinking it was just someone demanding something of him and seeking to intrude on his evasive peaceful sanity.

He didn't recognize the number and almost wasn't going to answer, but in the end was very glad he did.

"Hey buddy. This wouldn't that blue-balled kook, Tom freakin' Jones, would it?"

Tom started to recognize the voice. "Yeessss?"

"Hey! It's Adam! I can't believe I was able to track down your number!"

"Adam, buddy! How the hell have you been? Are you in New York?"

"I sure am. I'm sure your very busy pleasuring old ladies, but y'think you could find some time in your busy skedge for your coolest friend in the world?"

Adam Symes was a good old friend from Tom's snowboarding days, but they hadn't seen or talked to each other in quite a while. They agreed to meet at a coffee shop in Manhattan, where the two friends found that they had lots to talk about.

"Man, it's a good thing I called you up," observed Adam, hunched over his coffee. "You're in worse shape than I thought."

"What are you talking about? I'm doing alright," Tom protested defensively, wondering how Adam saw through him so quickly.

"No, you're a terminal case. You've been working too hard, dickless. What do you do for fun these days?"

Tom exhaled through his lips. "Well, some of the guys got together for a beer pong tournament and an epic round of Halo."

"Halo?! What the hell is that, some sorta video game? Man, you seriously need some fresh air and culture. Good thing I called you today. Did you know Metric is playing tonight?"

"Noo. I did not know that! Dude, hearing a little Metric could definitely put the colour back in my cheeks."

Adam looked at his phone. "We can still buy tickets. They're playing at the Bowery Ballroom tonight with Tokyo Police Club. C'mon, let's hit the bricks. We're getting you out of this funk."

It was true. Some unadulterated rock was exactly what Tom needed to save his mortal soul. And Emily Haines' sweeter than sweet vocals accompanied by a little head banging sure helped him to clear his mind. After the show, Tom had the customary ear-ringing as well as infatuation with Metric's lead singer. He went to sleep on a couch that night in a little flat in Brooklyn that Adam was renting, the guitars and drums and lyrics and visions of Emily still echoing in his head.

The next morning, Tom and Adam emerged into an unwelcome sunshine to forage for some breakfast. They found some good eggs and bacon along with the necessary coffee a couple of blocks away. Finally Tom was able to ask Adam how it was that he got to be living in New York.

"Well, I was waiting for the right moment to tell you."

"Why, are you some sort of Narco or something?"

"Hah! If I was you'd already be dead."

"That's big talk coming from someone who still insists on sleeping with a nightlight."

"Why would you mock that? I've got to be able to see if someone's trying to punk me in the middle of the night. Yeah, okay seriously. I am trying something new, so no laughing, alright?" Tom shrugged. "I want to become a painter." Tom gave his 'I'm impressed' expression. "I came down with a group of guys I met in Toronto and Montreal. Anyways, we're here to try and scrounge some work and keep learning as much as we can."

"No kidding? That is truly awesome. Sometimes I actually wish I could just study art for the rest of my life."

"Well, why can't you?"

"I've got some responsibilities going on right now. It's true, maybe I'm feeling a little crispy at the moment, but the truth is, I really love what I'm studying. I can't just give it up because it's a bit challenging."

"I've been wanting to just kind of wander around the city, looking for inspiration. Since I'm basically new here, any chance you could show me around a bit?"

"Totally."

The following week, Tom and Adam met up in Central Park to try and capture the casual nature of contemporary interaction, or something like that. Tom was proud to be able to brag to Adam that he was a professional, published freelance photographer. As Adam placed his camera strap to his Canon DSLR around his neck, he cast an undisguised look of scorn on Tom's little point-and-shoot.

"You're telling me that you've had your photos published, taken with that little Fisher-Price product?"

Tom looked down defensively at his small digital camera. "Hey don't knock the Pentax. This thing can go underwater, and you can drop it from five feet without doing any damage. It's 'adventure proof' as it says on the label, which has come in handy a few times in my line of work, let me tell you."


	4. Xanadu

Xanadu

Frank Castle was dreaming of lush Elysian Fields and Asian nymphs with impossibly long legs, when he began to realize that he was not in fact dead, but was somehow lying in a comfortable bed. He slowly opened his eyes, apprehensive of what he would see, but found himself in a pleasant room that was cheerfully lit by a skylight and was pleasantly decorated in a conservative yet agreeable Ikea style. He turned over to check to see if he still had all his body part attached. He found himself to be lying naked under a sheet, with his shoulder bandaged and his arm taped to his side. A brief inspection of the treatment he had received didn't strike him as professional, yet was more than adequate and could have been far worse.

As he began to push himself up in the bed, he drew the attention of a young girl dressed in a frilly blue nightgown that did very little to hide her cream coloured legs. At seeing Castle awake, she immediately ran off, excitedly reporting her observation in rapid Chinese.

Before long, a taller, more mature looking woman strolled into the room. She had long hair, raised cheekbones, wore a tight leopard print tank top and a mini skirt, and definitely seemed like she was in charge. As she approached Castle with a somewhat concerned expression, blue nightie hung back in the doorway, watching with unconcealed interest as their houseguest finally began to meet his hostess. "Ah, you are awake. How are you feeling?" She spoke English well, but with a heavy Chinese accent.

"A little battered, but no worse for wear. Where am I?"

The woman raised her hand. "You stumbled into our little business we run here. We like to maintain a discreet profile, so we took care of you so as not to draw attention from anyone who is not friendly." Castle had already spotted a tiny security camera in the corner of the room. "I'm Angela. What is your name?"

"Frank," he croaked.

"Okay, Flank. Tell me, why was the Italian mob chasing you?"

"Listen, lady, I appreciate your help, but if you recognized them as the mafia, then you know how dangerous they are. You need to help me get out of here before they come here looking and make a mess of your discreet little business."

"They already came. But I have my own friends that help me."

"Would these friends be the Flying Dragons?" Castle asked drily, referring to one of the Triads active in New York Chinatown.

Angela smiled without batting an eyelid. "Who are you, Mr. Flank? If you are an undercover police officer, tell me now before my friends find you and turn you into _char siu."_

"No I am not a cop, but I have a personal difference with some of these Italian gentlemen. And plenty of the Irish gentlemen are not fans of me either. Nor the Russians for that matter." As Castle reeled off his rogue's gallery of possible enemies, his hostess maintained her regal posture. Perhaps this resourceful businesswoman could help him. Well anyway, it was worth a shot. "Tell me something, Angela. Since you have connections in Chinatown and in the, uh, massage business. You wouldn't happen to know a blind, Japanese masseur, would you? Goes by the name of 'Beat' Kitano."

Angela was listening very closely to every word Castle was saying, and at the mention of a blind Japanese masseur, her eyes relaxed a little. "Oh, mister Beat. Yes, I know. Is he a friend, or another enemy of yours?"

"He's a friend, and a good one to have when you're in a tight spot. Is there any way you could get a message to him for me? I think I need his help."

"Getting through to him should not be difficult. But in the meantime, try to rest. I believe you when you say you are not my enemy. But you seem to keep company with very dangerous people, Mister Flank."

"I think you speak from experience, Miss Angela," Castle said warmly, as the two looked at each other, suspicion hiding behind their smiling eyes.

* * *

Tom fiddled with the focus on Adam's camera, zooming in for a brilliant closeup of a regal looking bird that had paused to reflect on his kingdom from the head of one of the Three Dancing Maidens sculpture in Central Park.

"What's that you got there?" asked Adam, looking over Tom's shoulder as he admired the screen.

"I like this camera!" exclaimed Tom. "Amazing the clarity. And I love how you can completely control the focus."

"I told you, you need to get one." Adam looked closer at the picture. "Cool bird. What is that? Some sort of a falcon?"

"Red-tailed hawk," replied Tom, surprising Adam with the readiness of his answer. "Try not to be impressed. I'm supposed to be studying to become a biologist."

"So what's preventing you?" asked Adam, taking back his camera as Tom grabbed his phone to read an incoming text message.

"Probably, I would say my biggest problem," said Tom absentmindedly as he paused, evidently contemplating something. "I'd say my problem is that I keep getting distracted. I gotta go."

"Where?"

"I'm following an investigation. Or more accurately, a hunch."

"Well can I come with?"

"Sure. As long as you think hanging around with a lowly stringer won't hurt your street cred."

"So who'd you get a text from?" Adam asked, once they were on the subway out of Manhattan. "And where are we going?"

Tom showed Adam his phone. "I have this police scanner app that I use to keep tabs on what's going down in the city. I had it programmed with an alert if the cops found something I've been looking for."

"And what's that?"

"Any sign of a former coworker that disappeared under suspicious circumstances." They made their way through Brooklyn until they arrived at the random border that marked the beginning of Queens. As they emerged into the surface world, they blinked at finding themselves in the bleak surroundings of one of the most forlorn neighbourhoods of New York City, colourfully known as 'the Hole."

"They knew what they were talking about when they named this place," remarked Adam. "What a dump."

Tom spied a gathering of police and forensics unit down a quiet looking suburban street. "It's not much to look at, but I'm not here take pictures. This place has been used as a Mafia graveyard for decades, and I'm hoping the cops have finally stumbled upon a clue as to what happened this guy."

"Who was it again?"

"His name was Maxwell Dillon. He was an engineer at Oscorp until one day he just vanished without a trace from Hell's Kitchen. Obviously I was suspicious that he was victim of a terrible crime, and tried to keep an ear out as to what happened."

"What made you think to watch dumpsites for the mob?"

Tom looked at Adam warily. "Max Dillion was involved in a conspiracy that resulted in the bloody murder of Oscorp's CEO. He, along with the rest of the conspirators, received a lot of hate mail. Then when he just disappeared one day, it was suggested that he was taken out by the mob. Let's see if the cops are willing to shed any light on this. Ah good, looks like the investigating detective is a friend of mine."

"Friend?"

"More like superficial acquaintance. Eh, I'm sure he'll remember me anyway. Oh, by the way. As a stringer, I use the alias Peter Parker. So remember to call me that."

Adam smirked. "Sure thing, peepee."

Tom walked up to the edge of the crime scene cordoned off with police tape. "Detective Leary! Long time no see. Are you in charge of this investigation?"

Leary barely glanced up from his notebook and other papers that he was holding. "Parker. What are you doing here? Aren't there any gruesome scenes of horror left in the city that you should be trying to get pictures of?"

"Always enjoyed your sense of humour, detective. So did you find Maxwell Dillon?"

Leary's eyes shot up to fix Tom with a piercing stare. "What do you know about it?"

"I knew Max. When he just up and disappeared like that, the rumour floated around that it was a mafia hit. Is that what it was?"

"I can't discuss an open investigation. But maybe you could help me by answering a few questions yourself. Like how you just happened upon us as we're in the middle of digging up Mr. Dillon's remains."

Tom smiled. "I like to keep my ear to the ground, detective. But sure, I'll be happy to help the investigation in any way I can. Like I said, I knew him. Do you want a visual ID of the body."

Detective Leary grimaced. "That's kind of you to offer, but there's a bit of snag with that."

"What?"

"We found most of him, just not his head."

"His head is missing?"

"And an arm, and the other hand, although the coroner thinks that that could have just been destroyed by decomp."

"Well, how did you ID the body?"

"Still had his wallet on him. Sometimes you just get lucky."

"Sorry to bother. Just one question, out of curiosity. What was he wearing?"

"Why do you want to know?" asked Leary with suspicion.

"Just curious. Wondering if it will help determine where he was going when he was murdered."

Leary looked at his notes. "We'll confirm in the lab, but it looks like he was wearing a suit."

Tom frowned. "A suit, you say? Can you tell what kind of suit?"

"What do I look like, a seamstress?"

"Was it a good quality suit, or not so much?"

"It says here that it was polyester."

"Hmm."

"Why?"

"But it's weird that the head and the other parts are missing, isn't it?"

"Not really. If it was the mob that did this, they oftentimes cut the body up. Don't worry, we'll find the rest of him. So how did you know the victim?"

Tom thought fast as how to protect his cover. "Max was an engineer, and I studied engineering with him at MIT. This photographer thing is more of a hobby."

Leary finished writing a scribble and then flipped shut his notebook. "You need a girlfriend there, little buddy. Or try drinking like everyone else. If you'll excuse me," he said turning around, and returning to the crime scene.

"Well?" asked Adam. "Did you get what you came for?"

"Pretty much," mused Tom cautiously.

"Well then let's get a coffee."

"You go ahead. I'll catch up," said Tom. "I just have a little errand I need to run."

Tom made a quick run by the offices of Oscorp labs. Just going into the lobby, he paused to look at some of the company photos that were posted there. Confirming his memory, Maxwell Dillon was never seen wearing a suit; neither for company snapshots of him in the office, nor for parties nor awards ceremonies. He thought it would be hypocritical. He was always seen in what could best be described as business casual. And the one time that Tom could in fact remember Dillon in a suit, for his sister in law's wedding, he was wearing a finely tailored suit that was most certainly 100% wool.

Tom didn't really know what to make of these inconsistencies: the missing body parts, the strange clothing, or the seemingly convenient manner in which he disappeared. But it did all add up to what seemed to be a mysterious problem, and not knowing the solution irked him. He would just have to dig a little deeper.


	5. Kaffe 1668

Kaffe 1668

Tom went to meet up with Adam's friends at Kaffe 1668, a cool coffee bar in Soho.

When he arrived, he saw Adam was sitting with a young man with floppy dyed brown hair, a black jacket and a t-shirt with a strange scene of a cartoon pig in a palm tree.

"Hey buddy!" greeted Adam. "This is Yoskay," he said, introducing the other guy, who bowed on hearing his name. "He just got here a few weeks ago from Japan."

"Hey! How ya' doin'?" Tom asked good-naturedly. Yoskay just smiled broadly and nodded. "So are you a painter, too?"

"Uh, yes. I painter."

"Great. Do you share the same artistic vision as Adam here?"

Yoskay looked a little confused, but then began nodding vigourously. Adam jumped in to explain. "You could say that we understand each other. I've mostly been involved with the street art scene, or graffiti art as it is sometimes called. So I would say that I have my roots firmly planted in 'punk,' and Yosaky definitely gets that. Maybe he's not from a street art background, but he likes to invoke the Steampunk realm in his art." To all of this, Yoskay continued to nod.

At this, Adam looked up to the door and checked his watch. "I was just getting hungry as it's 5 o'clock, and look! Here's Nelly, right on time." Adam waved towards a young slightly bearded man with a practically shaved head.

"Cheers," said Nelly, as he shook Tom warmly by the hand.

"Don't ask where he's going to school," Adam said in a faux aside to Tom, loud enough for the whole table to hear. "He's studying at the Art Center College of Design in California, and some, like Yoskay here, think he's being corrupted." Tom looked over to Yosaky, who looked back at them, then started studying something with compulsive interest in his drink.

"I'm not getting into this again with you guys. Especially not with you, Yoskay," as Yoskay stared back at him blankly. Tom could swear that he was just responding at hearing his name and gave no indication otherwise that he was this opinionated dictator or even that he understood what was going on, but everyone seemed to treat him as such. "Okay, it's true. The painters at the College are generally idiots, but that is not the case of the designers," Nelly continued in his posh British inflection. "I'm learning some fantastic things from the product design people, and that's something that I think I could have a real future in. I'm not going to apologize for that." Nelly was talking seriously, as Adam snickered in his face. "I don't think I could make a living as a painter, but product design is something I might be able to be passionate about, depending where I can get work."

"Sounds cool," Tom said, trying to be supportive. Adam stood up to wave to two young guys that had just walked through the doors. They got their coffees and sat down and introduced themselves. The first one who shook Tom's hand was a freckled red-head who called himself Mike Ulrich. His friend was introduced as Cyrus, a street artist from West Philly, who quietly retreated to the background to spectate an ongoing debate amongst the others about Ulrich's work.

"My latest sculpture is going really well," he responded enthusiastically, to the question of where he was at. "I've got all the preliminary designs and engineering completed. Now I'm just in the process of acquiring materials."

"Yes, I'm sure all of your engineering bollocks is greatly interesting," spouted Nelly. "But tell us, what is it going to be?"

"Oh, well, let me help you form a vision in your mind. Start with two dramatically torqued ellipses of weathering steel, supporting each other's weight-"

"No, no no!" interrupted Yoskay, slapping his palm on the table and contradicting Tom's earlier notion that he understood little to no english. "Enough of stupid sheets of metal, and rust buckets piled on top of one another. You have done plenty of that already."

Yoskay's voice conveyed passionate authority and Ulrich looked scared of him. "But that's not fair, Yoskay," he managed to put in. "I have some new ideas."

"New ideas, but are they revolutionary?" Yoskay quipped, his eyes looking like they were possessed and preparing to leave his body to start a life of their own. "There is nothing left to say with your folded metal pieces. People don't care about that anymore. Humans only care about art when there are humans in the art. Where is the human element? Where is the sex?"

Yoskay paused, letting his words hang in the air. "Definitely something to think about," Adam said with a Cheshire grin.

"What about, like, two lampposts makin' out?" Cyrus' deep voice suddenly boomed. Nods and murmurs echoed around the table in approval. Tom especially enjoyed talking to Cyrus, who had some great ideas about sculpture, and was enjoying working with Ulrich, but his passion lay in the underground world of street art. "Art shouldn't be ugly, nor does it have to be shocking to be revolutionary. I think in this crappy world, it's the beautiful things that are truly innovative. I was just thinking to myself this afternoon that there's already so much negativity in the city, especially within the public's perception of graffiti. You know what we should do?" He looked around the table of would be co-conspirators and accomplices. "Why don't we try to make something that is big, illegal and positive?" Tom was growing more and more intrigued by the street art world.

Soon they were joined by Zao Fei-hung, whom everyone called 'Chewie,' and Lauren Suzuki. The two sported very Asian names, yet both had grown up in other countries. Lauren was born in LA, and Chewie had grown up in France, and was still working out his english in many ways. He had returned to China to study calligraphy and was now trying to further his studies at the New York Studio School of Drawing, Painting, and Sculpture in Greenwich Village, but all he seemed to have learned was how to exasperate his professors, much to the delight of his friends.

Lauren herself had studied for two years at the Pratt Institute, and while enjoying the move to New York, she found herself at odds with her professors as well, who pushed a more conceptual approach over her illustrative style, and so eventually left without pursuing a degree. She showed photos of some of her finely drawn oil painting on wood to Tom, who marvelled at the sensuality of her unique mixture of Art Nouveau and Manga. 'This must be what Yoskay was talking about,' he thought.

By now, their group of fervent artists had grown to seven, plus Tom. Just when he thought this little slice of the art underground had swelled to capacity, two remarkable figures joined them. One was a successful and eminent painter, having created many historically and politically charged oils and mural frescos that were both internationally recognized and respected. He entered the cafe holding out both hands, while the others addressed him in a respectfully familiar way. "Gustavo! What a surprise! Excellent that you would join us like this!" they exclaimed.

Gustavo was around forty years old, and was fond of these young people; he enjoyed few things as much as to drop in from time to time and have a drink amongst the passionate beginners, whose enthusiasm warmed his heart.

While the famous artist drew obvious attention to himself, being terrifically fat and perhaps one of the ugliest people Tom had ever seen, with a toad like face that was paunchy yet wonderfully expressive, and a hearty laugh that complemented his bullfrog exterior. So as most were naturally focused on the great painter, trying to glean some kernel of wisdom, Tom's attention gravitated to his companion. When she first walked into the cafe, she was either in the artist's mountainous shadow, or Tom had only seen her from behind, and she could have easily been mistaken for a teenager. She was basically dressed like a _gótica;_ her jet black hair was pinned in places, causing black sprigs to stand out of the side of her head, and she was wearing a black corset and an unusual long flowing skirt that was black and red. When she turned, her skirts and silver earrings whirled, but it was her face that was most startling of all. She was wearing the customary black and purple goth mascara, but these did not diminish the intensity of her ferocious black eyes. Her mouth promised the smoky beginnings of a smile, and her posture was regal; like some sort of Aztec princess. Who could possibly be the real character under the guise of such an unassuming, diminutive woman? Because he was watching closely for it, he was sure he saw a glimpse of an enigmatic temperament that intrigued him greatly.

Tom decided to himself that his curiosity must be satisfied to learn more about this spellbinding character, and he found himself both captivated and frightened by her fiercely perceptive countenance. Like watching an approaching hurricane, he sensed the wild, unbridled power, yet could not make himself look away.

She looked over the crowd, and for a moment fixed her unwavering stare on Tom. As they made shameless eye contact, it was if both were daring each other to look away first, in some sort of spontaneous staring contest, which only served to transfix Tom all the more. Finally she turned to face and smile upon her friends at the table, not condescending to acknowledge interest in this stranger in their midst, nor applauding his audacity to engage her unyielding gaze.

"Who is that?" Tom whispered to Adam.

"That's Gustavo Ferrera, the famous Columbian painter. I thought you knew who he was."

"No, not him. Who is the woman with him?"

Adam swallowed and looked across the table at the little woman in black, who was just settling into her chair, and then laughing at some witticism of Gustavo. "That's his wife, Salomé."

"They're married?" Tom did nothing to hide his disbelief. But Adam did not judge him for his skepticism. By all appearances, they formed one of the least likely couples anyone had ever seen. "But who is she?" Tom insisted. "Is she an artist, too?"

"She sure is," said Adam, with a hint of affectionate pride. "She is a painter, and while some say that she is heavily influenced by Gustavo, I think she has an amazing style all her own."

Tom felt that he had to talk to this woman. He just couldn't help himself from being intrigued. He forced Adam to introduce him to her, and naturally her husband as well. Tom tried to catch her attention once again, but she refused to make eye contact, like a cat that knows what you want her to do and so instinctively does the opposite. Gustavo was feeling much more gregarious.

"So, what is the infamous 'Airdog' getting up to this week?"

Tom's curiosity was piqued. "Yeah, 'Airdog.' What're you getting up to these days?"

Adam looked a little embarrassed and put on the spot. "Well, y'know, just carrying on with my guerrilla art contributions."

Gustavo erupted in a big throaty laugh. "Ha, ha! I've always like that term: guerrilla art. It's very appropriate. What a great way for the artist to stay independent and yet allow the individual to carry on making his art and getting it out there; while at the same time snatching away power, territory and glory from a bigger and better equipped enemy," he said, nodding approvingly.

Suddenly the sphinxlike Salomé spoke up. "You men can sit here for hours in a café warming your precious backsides, and just talk endlessly about culture, art, revolution, blah, blah, blah. All the while thinking yourselves to be gods in this world, dreaming the most fantastic nonsenses and poisoning the air with theories and theories that never come true." It was a most unexpected addition, and it seemed to just come out of her effortlessly, with very little emotion, as she returned to drinking her tequila that had been put in front of her, staring straight ahead, almost as if these 'men' were not worth any more attention now that she had passed her judgement. Gustavo looked a little exasperated, giving the impression that this was just a continuation of a longer argument.

Adam looked like he desperately wanted to say something, while Tom just looked around at the others, as if he was watching characters in a play. Slowly the buzz of conversation continued, and Cyrus and Gustavo began speaking in hushed tones, like they were planning or discussing something of utmost importance. Tom and Adam turned to Lauren, who sat across from them, coquettishly sipping a chocolate martini. Adam quietly showed an album cover on his iPhone to Tom. It was a finely drawn oil-on-wood painting of an ethereal black woman with a porcelain doll face, looking seductive and vulnerable at the same time. Tom had heard the record: For Lovers, Dreamers, and Me by Alice Smith; a very cool jazz, R&B songwriter. But now Tom was paying particular attention to the cover art, as Adam indicated that this was the artist who was sitting in front of them.

"What Manga you reading these days?" Adam asked.

"Oh, you know. This and that," Lauren said evasively. "Whatever helps me command the emotions of my girls."

"Yeah, I'm not ashamed to admit that I'm always impressed at how you're able to invoke such sadness and sensuality into your painting. Where do you go that allows you to put genuine sorrow into your girl's faces?"

"It's the dark side of despair, that I always find just beneath the surface. It's just the way the grain of the wood meets the beauty of an ideal. That's what I find so rewarding." She licked her lips.

As fascinated as Tom was by this exchange, his eyes kept darting reflexively back to Salomé. As much as Tom wanted to, he could not keep his eyes off of her, whereas she seemed not to notice him at all. Finally as Gustavo and Chewie moved away to small round table so that they could discuss something while Gustavo stretched out his girth, Tom decided to opportune himself of an opening to talk with this mysterious woman.

"This New York winter goes right through you, doesn't it?" Tom remarked, as he observed Salomé blowing into her cupped hands. "That tequila should help to warm your insides."

"This tequila tastes like horse piss," she said flatly. "Most bars here only carry Jose Cuervo, which is diluted with _no se que._ _Sí no es 100% agave, no se vale. Lo pidí agave reposado, y me dio este mierda. Dime ¿haga perezco cualquiera gringa tonta?"_ She raised her hand emphatically and stared intently at Tom throughout this little tirade, not noticing that she had gone off in spanish. Tom by his facial expressions was agreeing with what she was saying, even though she probably did not consciously recognize that he understood her just fine in her mother tongue. "What I wouldn't give for a good bottle of Mezcal. I can endure the weather. It gets about this cold in Coyoacán. But I think I'm coming down with a flu or something. Must be too many gringos breathing on me."

"Coyoacán? Oh, so you're from DF?" asked Tom, pronouncing it the spanish way ' _day-effay.'_

Salomé looked up at Tom for the first time, her eye burning with intensity like lit coals inside the hearth of her black and purple mascara. "Do you know _el distrito_?"

"I've been there, but I was more or less just passing through. I didn't get to spend as much time as I would have liked." Tom motioned to the bartender. "Can I get a hot toddy with rum? Thanks."

Salomé returned to her drink. "Just passing through on your way to a resort?" she asked with some disdain in her voice.

"Not exactly." Tom hesitated while looking at her intently, trying to get a read on her character. Finally he leaned forward and said under his breath, "I was helping a bunch of migrants sneak across the border."

Salomé fixed him with her fierce stare. "Now you're shittin' me." She turned to Adam. "Where did you find this _payaso_ , anyway?"

Tom decided to play along. "Shh. What I did was highly illegal in this country."

"This country is ugly and stupid!" she declared suddenly. "Adam told me you're studying to be a doctor. So don't pretend that we come from the same world. The filthy upper class kids are always coming down to Mexico for spring break or to have some kind of adventure so that they can find themselves. So don't overstate a little backpacking, or your first time away from your mama. Because all of you rich Americans, you just return to your cushy lifestyles and your careers, and carry on as if the whole world was built to serve you even though now you've actually seen that the majority of the world lives in squalor. The fact that you can ignore the reality outside of your bubble makes me furious."

Tom smiled. "I don't disagree with what you've said. Probably the thing I find most offensive is that you called me American." Adam and Tom grinned.

"Well if you're not American, you're close enough."

"I like to think of myself as a citizen of the world."

Salomé seemed to smile in spite of herself to this remark. "Well, citizen. Are you un-American enough to join us in a protest later this week?"

"What are you protesting?"

"That olympic class idiot, Roderick Kingsley, is holding a gala event for all of his fat-ass cronies, and we're going disrupt the festivities."

Tom turned to Adam. "Kingsley. That guy's name has been the news lately, right?"

Adam responded, "He's hoping to be the Republican candidate for president. And he has gotten a lot of press coverage by airing some galactically stupid opinions. He's a big supporter of building a fence across the Mexican border. And he tweeted the other week that the Mexicans that come to the US are all criminals and rapists who bring drugs."

"Well saying something like that would knock him out of politics for sure."

"That's what should have happened," Salomé said, grinning like a cat. "But now he's more popular than the rest of them. It just goes to show that there is a huge undercurrent of racism in this country. He's actually preaching the message that a lot of Americans want to hear and agree with. So are you going to join us and be part of the solution?"

"I'm not really very political."

"So you agree with Kingsley then?"

"No. I guess I've always felt that the left is the lesser of the two evils. But…"

"But what?"

"I'm just saying, is protesting the solution? My real question is, I don't really know how to make a difference. Occupy didn't change anything, did it? I mean I thought Rage Against the Machine made some good points, but in the end they joined the capitalists like everyone else who's successful in this world."

Salomé flashed her teeth in a mirthless smile. "So what does that say for you, a would be doctor?" At this point the waitress came with the hot Toddy Tom and ordered.

Tom just said, "You know what, I really don't know. I'll just stick to what I do know, and that is that some hot rum, honey and lemon will make you feel better. No, listen, I know from having barely met you that you like to argue, but just trust me on this. I might be something like a doctor some day."

Again, Salomé found that she was smiling in spite of herself. She cocked her head and looked sideways at him, like a beautiful doll, propped up in a wooden chair. "Adam, where did you find this one? I have a feeling that he is a bit naughty." Adam just smiled guiltily and looked for a way to change the subject.

"Are you expecting someone?" he asked, after Tom checked his phone for the tenth time.

Now it was Tom's turn to look sheepish. "I was hoping to meet up with an old friend tonight."

"Yeah, you did already. Or am I not an old enough friend for you?"

Salomé's eyes darted back and forth at this interchange, her twitching ears hearing everything that wasn't being said. "I think what the little rascal is saying, Adam, is that he's hoping to meet an ex-lover tonight." She turned her head quickly to face Tom, grinning open mouthed so that all her incisors were showing; all of which only served to enhance her cat-like appearance.

"Oh?" asked Adam with an amused air. "Anybody I know?"

Tom puckered his mouth and looked sideways at Salomé, who was intently awaiting the answer. Now how did she do that? Finally he responded, "Yeah, you know her. I haven't seen April in a while and I was hoping she might be in town tonight."

"You're meeting April McIntyre tonight?"

"Maybe. It's not for sure."

"Hey, I'm just impressed that you're still in love with her, after all this time. Well don't let us keep you. Go, if you need to."

"I don't know if I'm in love with her exactly, but yeah, when I'm being honest, she is still an important person to me."

Salomé sat back in her chair with a look of triumph, cupping her hot toddy with both hands and holding it to her belly. "You are a rascal. Well, go with our blessing. All of us need a moonlight tryst once in a while. It warms the soul. Much like this drink you ordered me. I'm not one who's too proud to admit that this might be an American invention that I could actually enjoy."

Tom smiled. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Salomé. _Cuidate."_


	6. Gwen Stacy

Gwen Stacy

Gwen Stacy looked out the frosty airplane window as the Airbus 340 she was flying on, courtesy of Azerbaijan Airlines, touched down at JFK. The trip had gone surprisingly smooth. The short hop from Tehran to Baku went by in a blink, and they had been descending in Azerbaijan while the Flight Attendants were still trying to hand out peanuts. The next leg was the marathon, almost eleven hours. Getting sleep on an airplane was never something Gwen had found easy to come by, and so had watched all the movies and listened to the music that had vaguely caught her attention.

Mostly, her thoughts were plagued by worry, and in many ways she was not looking forward to this trip back to the US. Her work in Iran was invigorating and absorbing; and if she could she wished that she could just immerse herself in the lab and let the science become her whole world.

But Gwen Stacy was in every way a realist. She was aware that scientists often worked or not worked to the whims and dictation of fat business executives and politicians. And therein much of the secret of the rapidity of Gwen's meteoric rise; she understood the political and economic buttons and how to push them to get things done. In other words, she came to play, and damn, she got game.

But now, even her strategizing mind was finding it a challenge to know what her next series of moves should be. Technically she was still just an intern, but had received responsibilities and assignments that made the veteran scientists envious. But now, Oscorp, the company that was responsible for her internship and was endorsing the program she was working with was in a state of severe upheaval, to put it lightly. The previous two CEO's had been murdered, and the current CEO had led a violent enterprise to quash dissension amongst the executive scientific ranks of the company. The president of the company, Mark Iraklis, had been gravely injured during said violent altercation, and was now blind, yet intrepidly trying to carry out his duties.

All of this spelled complications for Gwen and her research. She was not on friendly terms with the CEO, Harold Osborne, and her established ally, Iraklis, was in a somewhat weakened position.

Thus, the unscheduled and basically undesired trip to HQ.

Gwen sighed and closed her eyes. Crossing US customs was always a pain, even for a US citizen. But add to that having spent three months in Iran, and being a pretty white girl who had converted to Islam and was wearing a headscarf; Gwen knew she was in for the usual study in American border 'racial' profiling.

Her first glance at the border guard as he waved her forward, she could tell he was going to be a dick. He took her passport, ignoring her friendly smile.

"Citizenship?"

"I'm American."

"Are you traveling alone?"

"I'm returning from a work assignment."

"What is the nature of your work?"

"I'm a lab assistant in a biological research facility."

"So where were you traveling from?" The hostility had began to rise in the guard's voice and posture.

"I've been working out of a lab in Tehran, mostly."

The guard finally looked up from flipping through her passport and gave her an incredulous smile. "Iran! That's a dangerous country. Why would a young girl like you take a job in Iran?"

"It was a great oppor-"

"What exactly are you researching?"

"We're a bioengineering laboratory where we're researching how to grow replacement body parts and organs in a lab."

"That sounds unethical." Gwen just blinked, as the guard had failed to ask a question. "And illegal." Gwen still failed to take the bait. "Please place your fingers in the scanner, and then put your chin on the rest for an eye scan." Gwen complied. Once this was done, Gwen was directed to a secondary holding area for further questioning. She sighed. She really didn't have time for this, but she was all too aware of the lack of tolerance the world had for people like her.

After waiting over an hour in a waiting area that was filled with brown people and Muslim families, two burly guards finally approached where she was sitting and escorted her to an interrogation room. There, she was bombarded by questions such as: 'What's your father's name? What does he do? Where does he live?'

They searched her luggage and confiscated her laptop and iPad, demanding the pass codes to open them. Gwen hesitatingly provide access, hoping that she had remembered to hide and lock up the sensitive files pertaining to her work and Oscorp. On her iPad, the guards were more interested that she had a copy of the Koran. "What does this say about your beliefs?" they demanded.

Gwen finally failed to restrain the wicked sarcasm from her voice. "It says that I'm a Muslim, but I thought that you had already figured that out." Oops.

The female guard with a face like a bulldog slammed her fist on the table. "So you think you're pretty smart, huh? We need to check you again for weapons." Gwen submitted to another rough and degrading body search.

"What made you switch to Islam?" Gwen was almost happy that they had finally arrived at what was bothering them.

"I feel it makes me a better person. Learning about God has given me a moral compass."

"But do you feel that you're more of an Arab or an American?"

"I've never thought about it that way."

"You've spent a lot of your life in the Middle East. Surely you feel more Arabic than American."

"Is that a question?" "Yes. Answer it!" "I feel equally both."

"Since you're such a Middle Eastern expert, who do you think is going to win?"

"Win what?"

"Don't get smart with us, miss lab assistant. Who's going to win? The Americans or the Muslims? The Israelis or the Palestinians?"

Gwen gulped, rage growing in the pit of her stomach for being forced to answer such an asinine question. "I've never been to Palestine," she said slowly. "But I would hope that they can learn to live together in peace." The guards waited in anticipation for her to address the other question. "I'll just say that I love America, and I was not aware that we are at war with the Muslims."

"That's not an answer."

"Then I don't know."

Gwen endured another two hours of waiting and interrogations before being allowed to enter the US, albeit without her electronics. The first call she made was to the Oscorp lawyers. She was put on hold after explaining her problem to the legal assistant, but soon was talking directly to Oscorp's general counsel, Mark Iraklis.

Gwen momentarily forgot her rage and frustration and hatred for the bigoted portion of her country, and only felt concern for her old friend and ally. "Mark! It's good to hear your voice. How are you feeling?"

"Oh, I'm doing okay. How about you? I heard that you gave Homeland Security a run for their money."

"They are such prejudiced assholes. I know they have a job to do, but they must recruit every psychotic bully and masochist, telling them that at the border, they can finally give legal vent to their sadistic tendencies." Gwen was finally able to express her frustration. "But the worst part is, they confiscated my laptop and my iPad."

"Don't worry about that," Iraklis said calmly. "We'll get you sorted out within the day. I'll personally see to it that we get back your things as well as going after the border agents. I won't settle for anything less than a formal reprimand in each of their records of I will sue all of the agents and their supervisors for harassment and abuse of authority. I will personally see to it that they regret rubbing their racist views in your face. So are you coming by? I'd love to see, er, or have you come for a visit." They both left an awkward pause after his slip of the tongue.

Gwen gracefully smoothed the conversation. "I would love to see you, Mark. There is so much for us to catch up on."


	7. Visions of April

Visions of April

As Tom waited in a coffee shop, as he kept his eyes firmly fixed on the entrance while wondering to himself constantly whether April was actually going to show, he began to realize just how nervous he really was over this little date. He shouldn't have been so nervous. Why was he? It probably had to do with that he hadn't seen April in a good while and he was wallowing in self doubt as to whether he would be able to successfully captivate her precocious nature for an entire evening. Would he be able to come up with enough material to keep the conversation from being awkward or too personal? He seemed to be under a lot of pressure, while at the same time, he was greatly looking forward to seeing April again.

His heart fluttered in his chest when she finally walked through those doors of the coffee shop. She was wearing her wintery wool coat, mitts, and paused to pull off her pink wool toque before she came to Tom's table. Tom jumped up to give her a hug. Why did holding her feel so right? As she sat down she pulled her flattened hair out, and then looked up at Tom with her big, brown doe eyes. She still was as devastatingly cute as ever.

"What?" she asked, smiling.

Tom blushed. "Nothing," he stammered. "Just remarking on your bad hair day, that's all."

"Okay, whatever, jerk."

"What can I get you? T'is the season for pumpkin spice lattes."

"Sounds great," she said, running her hands down her cold legs.

When he returned to the table with the coffees, he said, "I have to say it's incredibly good to see you. It feels like it's been so-"

"It's been so long-" she started to say at the same time, then they looked at each other and laughed. "I have missed you, Tom. You may not believe me, but I've often wondered when I'd see you again. It seemed like you just left without a goodbye. I needed something like this, y'know, a conversation and a farewell kiss."

"I didn't call you up to say fare thee well."

"I know, I know. But without actually talking to you, I was just left with the ghosts in my head. And I know that I have a fickle heart, and a heaviness in my mind, and a wandering eye, and a bitterness that you left me with. So I may not have realized how much I needed to see you again. Even though it was you that left me."

"I don't want to talk about who said what or texted any stupid thing-"

"That was you."

"I said I didn't want to talk about that, if you don't mind. Let's talk about what's going on now. Because I'd like to think I'm a little wiser than that guy you knew before."

"There were many times that I actually liked that guy. His stupidity could be charming."

Tom looked down at the table. "Thanks. Well then, let's talk about some of the things we used to do. You getting any culture out there in Boston? You're looking a little piqued."

"Thanks. You're looking pallid yourself."

Tom grinned. ""And that Raven still is sitting on the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door.'"

"To 'clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore?'"

"Rare and radiant indeed. But honestly, McIntyre, you're seriously look like you've been studying too hard and need some exercise. Luckily for you, I have just the thing."

"What? Exercise?"

"Precisely."

"I don't know what you have in mind, but I don't have any gym clothes."

"I know. I took the liberty of buying you some stuff. I have it in my backpack. Now grab your coffee and let's go. Trust me, you're going to love it."

As they rode the subway, April looked content and nostalgic. "I can't believe you bought me workout clothes," she said.

"You're going to hate them," Tom grinned. "But they'll serve the purpose."

"So tell me, how is that you have a place in New York?"

"Oh, it's because I have an internship with Oscorp Labs. Because of my understudies and responsibilities there, they also gave me a dorm room."

April looked impressed. "Cool."

They rode the subway up until the Union St. station, and exiting out into the bracing cold air, walked a few minutes to Brooklyn Boulders, a rock climbing gym. "Ta-da! Tonight we're gonna smack the Boston softness outta ya while we climb some rocks! Whattya think?"

April's eyes hardened and her mouth showed the hint of a smile. "Bring it!"

Soon they were changed and putting on their gear while staring up at a climbing wall. "Pretty cool, huh?" Tom asked. "Are you intimidated?"

April glared at him. "I am _never_ intimidated."

Tom smiled to himself. April's competitive nature was such a big, red button to him that he couldn't resist pushing it. "Well then, let's do this. I'll just give you a bit of a crash course." Tom showed her how to connect her harness and how to belay your partner. Then he effortlessly climbed up part of the wall, while trying not to show off too much. Wall climbing was of course a breeze compared to being a human spider and scaling the side of a skyscraper, but he didn't want her to know that.

Unfortunately she was already suspicious. "Wow, university has really been good for you." Tom shrugged and dropped back to the ground beside her. She reached out and squeezed his bicep, causing her already big eyes to visibly widen even further. "You were never that strong when we were together. What's your secret?"

Tom grinned sheepishly. "I've been converted to see the value in regular exercise, believe it or not. Perhaps it was my medical studies of the human body."

"Perhaps."

April leaped onto the wall and was soon scaling it at a rate that was already beyond novice. April and Tom had met each other as snowboarders on the slopes of Whistler, so they had a history of doing sports together. Tom acted as belayer, while he barked out suggestions from below. He knew that April hated to be coached, but he was really trying to get under her skin. Soon her combative approach to life was driving her to climb at a break-neck pace.

April was impressing even herself as she began to fall into a rhythm; step, reach, step, reach. "This will shut up Tom's stupid face," she grunted. "I'm almost achieving perfect economy." She was doing so good, she couldn't resist yelling a taunt to interject into Tom's coaching. "I'm almost there," she panted. "Boston softness my tight white ass."

Her victory would have been complete, if almost at that very moment she hadn't lost her concentration and missed her footing, causing her to slip and fall backwards. Tom had the tension of the belay on, so she only fell a little bit, but the panic that seized her caused her other foot to slip down and get caught between two footholds. She involuntarily shrieked in pain.

"It's okay! I got you!" Tom yelled.

"No, I need to be lifted up, but I can't do it!" she yelled back. April was hanging from her right foot, and if Tom tried to lift her with the climbing rope, he risked twisting her ankle or worse; breaking her foot.

But Tom was no ordinary climber. In a flash he had anchored the rope and cut the distance between him and April by a third, jumping about three meters into the air. Landing on the wall, he rapidly scaled the remaining nine or so meters to reach April. He came up from below her and placed his arm under her harness, all in a matter of seconds.

"It's okay. I'm just going to take your weight so that we can loosen your foot. Don't worry. I totally got you," he said soothingly. He comfortably eased her up so that her foot slipped out and soon she was dangling, right side up from the climbing rope. He guided her to hold onto the wall again as he quickly descended back to the ground to grab the belay.

"Okay, I got the belayer. If you want to just let go, I'll ease you back to the ground."

"Nice try! I'm not going down until you're looking up at my sweet tush from the top."

Tom broke into an irrepressible smile. "Telling me to look at your sweet behind was how you got into that little difficulty in the first place, princess." He knew he shouldn't goad her, but he couldn't resist.

"If you think I'm going to leave here with you without finishing this, then you really have lost touch with reality," she said, her tone harder than steel.

Tom knew better than to argue with her, so he shut up. She took a more cautious approach, slow and steady, but soon she reached the top. "Okay, you can lower me down now."

"I don't know. I kind of like the look of your sweet tush from down here."

"I'm getting down one way or another, but how long you live afterwards depends on how quickly you let me down."

"Understood. Lowering you, right now."

When she was back on the ground and getting out of her harness, Tom immediately noticed that she was favouring her right foot, unable to put weight on the ankle. He instantly felt bad. "I'm sorry, that was my fault. I should never have pressured you."

April looked at him sweetly. "Forget it. I was pressuring myself. And it's not hurt that bad. I think I can walk it off. Besides, it could have been a lot worse. How did you get up there so quickly, anyway?"

Tom pretended to be concentrating very closely as he examined her ankle. "Oh, you know," he said absently. "I've been working out. Practicing."

"Well, whatever you've been doing, you got me out of a bad situation rather painlessly. Thanks. And I really did have fun doing this. Thank you."

They changed back into their street clothes and met out by the entrance of the gym. "How goes the walking if off? Do you want to me to take you home?"

"I don't know. The night is young." April's eyes danced playfully. "Is there anything you could show me of your work at Oscorp?"

Shortly thereafter, Tom was showing April around the deserted offices and laboratories where he worked.

"I remember when you first started here. You were so passionate about what you were learning."

Tom nodded. "I guess I've probably come out of the honeymoon phase somewhat. Some of the work I was doing has been put on hold pending an internal investigation, and it doesn't look like it will be re-approved anytime soon. So lately, I've mostly been working on stuff that's pretty routine, or coordinating other people's projects."

Once the tour was finished, they made their way to Tom's dorm room. "My roommate's away for a couple of weeks. Can I mix you a drink? Maybe a gin martini, cold and dry?"

"Just like old times," April smiled.

"And how have you been doing lately, with school and everything?" Tom asked, as he shook the cocktail with the ice.

April sat back in the one comfortable arm chair in the room. "I don't know. Good, I guess. Obviously I love what I'm studying and I'm excited at the prospect of being a lawyer; serving the law, winning cases."

"But?"

"But part of me misses our old bohemian lifestyle, you know?"

Tom served themselves their martinis. "Oh, believe me, I know."

"I still think I learned my most important lessons in life on the open road. Sometimes I wish we could just buy a Harley, and drive across America. Try and discover how this country used to be. I find that the more I get to see the inner workings of the system, the less I believe in the kindness of strangers. But I think belief is important. I believe in the person that I want to become. I know, I'm freaking crazy. But I long for freedom."

Tom smiled warmly. "True freedom is not dependent on your circumstances, but comes from within."

"Who said that?"

"I did. Like five seconds ago."

April practically snorted into her drink, which left them both laughing affably. "So you fancy yourself some kind of wise sage now? Are you going to give me advice on what I should do?"

"Well right now I'm going to tell you to sit back and relax." He raised her foot and took off her shoe and sock, then proceeded to apply some Blue Ice balm to her sore ankle. April closed her eyes and rested her head, while tightly gripping her drink. "Just like old times. How does that feel?"

April sighed. "Better, thank you."

As he rubbed the sore ligaments in her foot, ankle and leg, he continued their conversation. "Now as much as the idea of me being your life-coach must appeal to you," April interjected with a scoff, "I don't want to give you advice. I just want to love you. I always have."

April looked down. "Damn you," she said smiling. "I know, but damn you."

"I know, I'm sorry. I've complicated things. It's just that I've been feeling restless lately, and you were expressing these feelings that were exactly the same as mine…"

"And you just can't stand being alone."

"Yeah, exactly. And since we both felt this restlessness in our bones, then honey, I can't take the blame if I said that you're still my best friend."

"If that's true," she said slowly, "then why haven't you invited me to spend the night?"

Tom slowly put down April's leg and pulled up a stool so that his face was level with hers. He rested his head on the armchair and stared into her big brown eyes. "Dunno. Just an idiot I guess."

April smiled contentedly. "And yet here I am anyway."

Tom moved forward and they kissed. Old feelings of fireworks and sparks flowed through them; the home fires were rekindled. April polished off her martini and put down the glass, standing up. Tom moved slowly over to her and helped her pull off her sweater. In a tank-top, she started unbuttoning Tom's shirt. He started kissing her neck and worked his way down to her shoulder, where she had a celtic rose knot tattoo. It was complemented by the words 'Love never fails,' that were written down her shoulder blade; a tribute to her great grandmother who had loved that scripture. Oh, how he had missed the feeling of that tattoo on his tongue! And as he licked her salty skin, he remarked to himself that he still really enjoyed the feeling of the knot pattern when his lips brushed across it.

He pulled down the straps of her top, and they made love in his little twin bed, while reminiscing of simpler times.


	8. Everything Zen

Everything Zen

 _We can see unmistakably that there is an inner relationship between Zen_

 _and the warrior's life. —_

 _D.T. Suzuki_

Frank Castle was finding it difficult to get much information from his Asian hostesses. Where exactly was he? Somewhere in Chinatown, evidently. How did he end up there?

He woke up from a fitful sleep to find the same pretty little thing that he had woken up to before, sitting on a couch, fully absorbed in her cell phone. When he had first laid eyes on her, she had been wearing a frilly blue nightgown. Today she was wearing grey sweat pants, a low-cut white shirt, and bright pink flip flops. She was petite, with big red-framed glasses, but her thin arms were visibly wiry from her work as a masseuse.

Castle made a move to sit up in the bed, and pain shot through his shoulder, causing him to bellow out a deep groan. The girl looked up, and ran out of the room, calling to someone in Mandarin. Soon, as Castle was making efforts to stand on his own two feet, a taller woman strolled in. She looked to be in her late twenties, Castle estimated, as she introduced herself in perfect Brooklyn english that her name was Lisa Yau. She was a classic Asian beauty, with her raven hair worn long and straight, the barest touch of makeup on her face.

"Hi Lisa," he grunted. "Name's Frank." He quickly scanned this newcomer, the suspicious commando part of his mind trying to catalogue just what kind of urban jungle he had found himself in. She displayed no rings or other jewelery, and he pegged her as a student or woman with her eyes on a career.

"It's good to see you're back with us," she said solemnly.

"Where have I been?"

"Out of it," she reported. "Well, in and out. Mostly out of it for nearly twenty four hours." She rattled off a command to the smaller girl in the red glasses, who proceeded to run out of the room. "That's Mei. She's going to fix you something to eat."

"Food sounds pretty fantastic right now," Castle winced as he tried testing his wounded shoulder.

Lisa poked the muscle in his arm. "Mei was a registered nurse in Guangdong province. You can thank her for fixing you up."

"I'll do that," Castle murmured. "I suppose you knew better than to call a doctor or drop me off at a hospital. I guess I have your madam, Angela, to thank for that foresight?"

"Yeah," Lisa said, laughing a little. "It's true Angela can be a bit of a witch sometimes, but she's not completely heartless. She just approaches life with a cold pragmatism. I guess that's how she's able to run this place. But I've had worse bosses, I must say. Anyways, when we found you bleeding and past out on our doorstep, obviously calling the cops was out of the question. And letting you turn into a corpse was not much of a better option, as we'd have to either dispose of the body or wind up back at option one, facing the cops and their endless investigations. But if we just left you there, we'd risk inviting further intrusions from whomever you were running away from."

Castle face cracked in a wry smile. "Your miss Angela's a smart cookie, I'll give her that. I might even start to like her. But you could have disposed of me at any time while I was unconscious once the heat died down."

"She waited until she had a conversation with you, to let you have an unwitting interview for your life. She must have liked what you had to say, because here you still are."

"Yeah. Here I am," he muttered. "How long did you say I've been out?"

"Since two o'clock yesterday afternoon. Mei's been getting worried. She was thinking about trying to rent some I.V. equipment if you didn't come out of it pretty soon."

"Oh yeah." Castle's attention suddenly centred on what felt like a vacant crater in his stomach.

"So you'd better try eating whatever Mei brings you. You need to get your strength up."

"Thanks, you're right. So let me ask you something, Lisa. You seem like a nice girl. How did you end up working in this kinda joint? No offense intended. I'm grateful for the first-rate care you girls have provided. But I'm a dangerous person. And this line of work would expose you to a lot of sketchy characters."

Lisa crossed her arms, looking serious. "How do you know I have a choice?"

Castle rubbed his jaw with his good hand. "I don't, but you don't seem like the kind of girl that's running away from something. No, that would be Mei there. You, on the other hand carry yourself with a certain confidence and self assurance that tells me you're here because you want to be."

"Well I don't know if I want to be, but a girl's got to eat, right?"

"Smart girl like you? There's lot's of ways to earn your grub, if that's all you're after."

"Like become a lawyer?"

"Sure, like become a lawyer. Is that what you are? A lawyer?"

Lisa smiled uncomfortably. "I'm going to law school. So now your question is what am I doing here, Well law school is freaking expensive, and I didn't even have a scholarship for university. I was looking for an after school job, but they all pay squat and would barely cover my living expenses. Then a friend of a friend told me he knew of a way I could make easy cash if I was desperate. I decided I was and he introduced me to the business and to my current mama-san. That's Angela. Sure you can smirk if you want, but while other chumps will be paying off their student loans until they're old and grey, I'm actually making money. I'm making like fifty grand a year."

"That's lucrative. Then why stop?"

"I don't plan on doing this forever. Truth is, older masseuses find it harder to keep their clients. This is just one step for me in my life plan, and then I'll leave it behind. In the meantime, I told my parents I got a scholarship and I paid my tuition with this job. So yeah, it's working for me."

"And the work doesn't get to you after a while?"

"Hey, don't knock what you don't understand. Angela runs a pretty respectable establishment. She trains all her employees in actual massage techniques so that we're practically health care professionals. We just don't have any papers to show. But Angela has taught us to treat the body and the mind so that massage is a holistic experience. I mean look at you. You're living proof of that."

Castle did not feel like arguing with this woman, and he concentrated on keeping a straight face as she freely talked of her unorthodox lifestyle. But she had a point, they had saved his life so he could not question their approaches to holistic healing. They had something figured out, certainly. Maybe it was the hypnotically soothing Japanese water music they had playing in the background but he decided to go with the flow. "So all in all, it's been a good thing, working here?"

"Mama-san always says that in Zen, everything is about personal experience. This experience will help me process new ideas for the rest of my life. I got this job to pay for my education, and these philosophical methods to our work here help us to approach life from the practical side, to work out Enlightenment in life itself."

Castle couldn't contain himself. "You think giving some Japanese business man a happy ending will bring you closer to spiritual truth?"

Lisa pouted her lips in exasperation. "Don't be crass when we're talking about sacred truth," she said. "The simple truth is that sex is sacred. It connects us in the most basic way to the source of Creation. It takes us back to our own beginnings. The Buddhist monk Ikkyu said that 'The spirit of zen is manifest in ways as countless as the sands of the Ganges. Every newborn is a fruit of the conjugal bond. For how many eons have the secret blossoms been budding and fading?' All of this contributes to my inner spirit, where I believe in my inner purity and goodness. The tranquility I feel discussing these things adds to my own wholesomeness."

"Purity," Castle echoed, his mind starting to feel tired trying to make sense of all of this. "I'm sorry, but I can't see the purity here."

Lisa sighed, and then spoke with a hint of pity, like trying to describe a sunset to someone born blind. "Pure zen is a spiritual philosophy that is simply an absorption of the essence of life. Many are slaves to their desires because they they feel that something is missing that must be filled by something 'out there.' But Zen says to stop looking out there, because the answer is in here." Her hand dropped to her bountiful chest, where Castle's eyes lingered. Finally he thought he was starting to understand.

Lisa continued, "Inward is where the key to happiness lies. When he was asked, 'Where is the path?' the master Nansen replied that Everyday life is the path. If you focus on the experience of life, you may realize that what you think you desire you already have.

"In zen, we have the thing we truly lust for. We're of it, like every man and woman 'born of the conjugal bond' on the planet. Once we understand that we're of the very think we're looking for, we begin the process of controlling our desires. We begin to desire without desiring. So just live life passionately, make love passionately, absorbed in what you're doing. Don't _try_ to do it. _Do_ it. After all, 'Paths cannot be taught, they can only be taken.' So allow the way of making love to take you."

"Oh," was all Castle could think to say.

"You can allow it to take you anywhere, anytime, with anyone, because zen truth is available at all times, for any person willing to practice."

At that moment, and to Castle's relief, Angela walked in tailed by Mei. "Lisa," she commanded. "Your client's been waiting for you. Let Mr. Flank get some rest."

"Yes, mama-san," said Lisa, giving a Castle a little wave good-bye as she hurried out of the room.

Mei appeared with a tray, as Angela directed her how to arrange everything. She set the tray on the bed, showing Castle poached eggs, dry toast and a cup of jasmine tea. Mei arranged the tray for easy access, puffed up the pillows behind him and helped him to a workable position, then watched attentively as he struggled through the self feeding. As he began to eat, Angela began her efficient run down of his condition.

"So according to Mei, you got off pretty easy considering the extent of your wounds. There's a tiny furrow across your hip, no problem there. She dressed it with sulfa salve, so as to take no chances with infection. As for you shoulder, well, she says you're a very lucky man. You lost an ounce or two of tissue, but nothing vital. If the bullet hadn't nicked a large artery, you'd probably still be out running in the streets instead of here abusing my generosity. But you lost a tremendous amount of blood, so you became my problem."

Castle grinned, dizzily working at the elusive eggs. "You sound like you have a medical background, miss Angela."

"I'm a health care professional, thank you. How long since you'd slept?" she prodded. "Before yesterday."

He thought about it for a moment, then replied, "I honestly don't remember. A couple of days, I guess."

"That verifies what I thought. You're worn down physically, and you were probably reaching the edge of your reserves even if you hadn't been shot. You'll probably have to stay here for at least another couple of days,"

"You don't understand," Castle weakly protested. "My enemies know their business. They'll find me here sooner than that, and-"

"We have ways to keep you safe, Mr. Flank. But you will have to be on your way soon, and I have ways to make sure you get the bill for our services."

Castle didn't doubt this resourceful lady's collection abilities for a second. "And were you able to get a message through to Beat for me?"

"We were unable to communicate with Mr. Beat. I'm sorry. Okay Mei, let's allow the patient to get some rest." She shooed the smiling little cutie-pie out of the room, leaving Castle his privacy.

He was tired, but some of the philosophical mumbo-jumbo that Lisa had spouted had stuck with him. Eastern concentration and calming techniques had been part of his martial-arts and sniper training when he was a SEAL, so the ideas were not completely foreign to him. And when Lisa talked of sex and purity, it made him think of his own mode of living; only it was _warfare_ and purity. There is purity in warfare. A hellish kind of purity. An army gets soft and undisciplined when it's off the line, and the same truth applied equally to the lone warrior. Each moment that he remained in this Asian spa camp, he knew, he was falling that much farther into gross impurity.

He had to get back on the line. And the sooner the better.


	9. Once I Loved A Spider

_Once I loved a spider When I was born a fly,_

 _To educate young spiders She took me all apart._

 _My ghost came back to haunt her. I saw her eat my heart._

 _\- Vachel Lindsay_

 **Insomnia Journal: Entry 3 - 4:45 a.m.**

Just woke up after the best REM sleep I've had in weeks. Here I lie as I wake from this dreamless slumber, the gremlins of my mind are already hard at work. To wish for that sleep of death is, without a doubt, a selfish fancy. When once you have shuffled off this mortal coil, will you have pause to reflect on what has been your existence? Was I a cowboy? Or was I a clown? Maybe I was a wandering sprite, here and there like a passing flame. Now I'll just light myself on fire, and walk out on the wire once again. And I know who I have to thank for helping me to feel so much better. Thank you, April, for lying here beside me. I might not be able so sleep, but I feel like I'm finally getting some rest. It's because I love to watch her sleep. It's the breathing.

It's the breathing in and out and in and…

What would Salomé say to this? Let's paint in the colours, she'd say. Give me your blue rain, give me your black sky, give me your brown eyes, give me your white skin. Come on give me your white skin, tattooed white skin.

* * *

Tom was awake for a couple of hours, contentedly listening to the soothing, rhythmic sounds of April's breathing. Somehow, he felt whole again. Even though they had had their rough patches, he had given her pieces of himself that he could neither take back, nor desired to give to anyone else. Even if a relationship fails or stalls, if you give away too many little pieces of your heart, you'll just end up an empty shell. And Tom didn't need anyone these days to tell him that he was fading away.

Finally, April began to stir. "Mmmm. Are you awake already? What time is it?"

"Shh. It's early. And it's Sunday. You can sleep in if you want."

Eventually, the cruel sun began to light up Tom's small dwelling. In his eyes, the morning light falling upon April bestowed her with an angelic glow. As the sun's light relentlessly drew her from her slumber, she twitched her nose and rubbed her eyes, sat up and stretched. She looked over at Tom, who continued to bask in her ethereal beauty. "What?" she asked, smiling coyly. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"If you were seeing the view from where I'm sitting, you'd know."

April modestly held the sheet up, but Tom reached to run his fingers along her bare shoulders and down her back, causing her to shiver a little. "Sorry. Are my hands cold?"

"No, I'm still just getting used to these circumstances."

"You need to relax even more." Tom began massaging her neck and shoulders. "I'm so glad you stayed over," he said, kissing her shoulder and his favourite tattoo.

"Well, I'm glad you invited me." She turned around and kissed him. "With a little coaching I could add."

"You could tell that lawyer of yours to shut the hell up and quit being such a smarty pants," he said, smiling.

"Oh, so that's the way it's going to be, is it?"

"That's the way it _is_. Can you take it? Are you tough enough?"

She wrestled him playfully a little bit, before putting more strength into it than he was expecting and succeeded in pinning him down. "You know I am," she whispered, straddling him. "Maybe your finally just ready to man up and take me."

"Take you where? It's cold outside and you need a jacket."

She kissed him deeply, leaning forward with her breasts brushing against his chest, and he felt like his entire soul was blissfully floating through time and space, because the regular laws of physics could not contain the joy he felt at that moment.

"I think you'd better strap in," she said. "I see I need to keep you busy to stop you from quoting silly movies."

Tom kissed her back. "I'm speechless," he said, as they bonded. The follow up was even better than the night before.

* * *

Castle's recovery was dramatically quick under the constant ministrations of his three nurses. He was fed every time his eyes flickered open, and Mei was eager to administer recuperative massages whenever he was conscious, and even when he was not. The next day he was up and prowling around under his own steam, getting the lie of the "health spa" where Lisa worked and Mei and Angela seemed to live, shared by a couple of other masseuses. The office that they rented was located in Chinatown in Lower Manhattan, and they seemed to be closer to the eastern side of the neighbourhood.

In an effort to get his bearings and wanting some fresh air, he put on some clothes that had been laid out for him, wincing as he put his aching shoulder through the arm of a fitted blue t-shirt. He donned his dark aviator glasses and was heading for the front door, when a nervous little asian guy stepped in. Castle planned on laying low while he performed some reconnaissance of his location, but this diminutive man surely posed no threat. He stopped short on seeing Castle standing there in the lobby and immediately began looking around in a confused manner, acting as if he had gotten lost. He mumbled a question in Mandarin as Castle looked on amused, and then he high-tailed it out of there. As the door slammed shut behind him, a skinny girl in a red camisole came running out of the back and desperately pressed her face against the window, yelling protestations in Chinese. She soon directed her incomprehensible outrage at Castle, as he held his hands up apologetically. The girl returned to the back and soon Angela came out to settle the dispute.

"Mr. Flank, if you need to step outside, please use our discreet rear entrance. Your presence is frightening to our clientele, and that is no way to show your gratitude for our hospitality."

"Sorry," Castle said contritely, but with a mischievous grin. "But am I really that frightening? I know that maybe I need a shave-"

"It's your whole, uh, _mianmu_ ," Angela stated, waving her hand to address Castle's whole deal he had going on. "It's your face. You have the distinct air of a police officer."

"Well, maybe to a guilty conscience," laughed Castle, as he followed Angela's command to retreat to the back.

"Lisa purchased some beef for you to eat to strengthen your blood," remonstrated Angela. "I would prefer that you recover sufficiently so as to not bring your troubles back here."

She shooed Castle through the curtain that divided the lobby from the labyrinth of rooms in the back. He carefully made his way to the bathroom, unbandaged his wound, and stood in front of the mirror to inspect it. Mei's stitches were a bit uneven and raggedy-ended, but the flesh surrounding them seemed healthy and alive. He guessed she'd known what she was doing. He took a good look at the guy staring back at him in the mirror.

Taking a time out like this went against his warrior's instincts of keeping on the move. But then again, victorious warriors win first and then go to war, while defeated warriors go to war first and then seek to win, so says the Art of War. With agents of the enemy lurking around practically every corner, he wasn't currently in a very strong position to carry on his war.

He needed intel. Precisely how long could he expect to impose on the seeming good-will and generosity of his wily hostess? To how much danger was he exposing these women by his mere presence there? And what sort of city-shaking bombardment was the mob unleashing for his head on a plate? And then there was the cops. Were they all just sitting back and waiting for him to show? More likely they were fulfilling their duty which was to make his life more complicated.

The answers to these questions were approaching critical mass. He took another long look at himself in the mirror. Was this his destiny? To bring only death and destruction to those poor souls who had the misfortune to stumble across his path? Forget good and evil. For Frank Castle, there were only allies and enemies, and hopefully the latter were more of the evil variety. But enough moralizing. Time to get on with the mission.

A two day accumulation of whiskers was already radically altering his appearance. He'd let then grow, he decided, and try to hang here at Xandadu for a couple more days, at least until the wobbles left his legs. Then he for damn sure had to get back on the line. A war awaited him.

* * *

As Tom showed up for work, one of the security guards tried to get his attention.

"Yes? What is it? I'm running late," asked Tom absent-mindedly.

"I'm actually just speaking to you as a courtesy," said the guard. "You wouldn't have happened to have invited a female friend for an unapproved tour of our facilities a couple of nights ago, would you?"

Tom paused in mid-step. "Who says?"

"I say. I was on the night shift, and I saw you taking some chick through the lab way after hours."

Tom turned around. "Maybe. Did you call this in?"

"Like I said, I wanted to give you a heads up first, out of courtesy."

"And I appreciate it. What did you say your name was?"

"Fred."

"Well, Fred, you know how it is. Sometimes you do kinda stupid things in order to impress a girl."

"Was it worth it?"

"The evening was pleasant, if that's what you're asking. Thank you. I'm sure you understand. Maybe I could smooth the diplomatic relations between the security personnel and management with, perhaps a bottle or something, to maintain that understanding?"

Fred smiled. "If it was, say, a single malt, I'm sure an understanding could be maintained."

"Fred, I believe that we are finally two men who speak the same language," concluded Tom.


	10. Flies are Born to be Eaten

_I have lived eighty years of life and know nothing for it,_

 _but to be resigned and tell myself_

 _that flies are born to be eaten by spiders_

 _and man to be devoured by sorrow._

 _\- Voltaire_

 **Insomnia journal: Entry 4 - 2:13 am**

I guess the only complaint (if I had to complain about something) is that I can't sleep at night. But you know the Devil is in the dreaming. And all the little things that make up a memory. But now I think I'm glad about what she talked me into doing. I know it's not her fault, and I feel guilty for cutting off Gwen like that. She was right. I needed to tell Mariah to get away from me. It wasn't easy, but if I love her for real, then I don't need her to believe me. And these silhouettes that hang above my head, like to whisper to me every time I fall asleep. They're Michalangelo's angels of the silences that climb into my bed. They read me like an open book, then suck my blood and break my nerve. They say, We're waiting for you. And I say, I know that I'll pay for all my sins. And I'd pay now if I could, if that would mean an end to the suffering. All my claims of innocence are wasted on the dead and dreaming. These visions of my Last Judgement, are angels on the ceiling that offer me their arms.

But I can think of something better if all my friends and lovers will leave me behind, one way or another.

* * *

The laboratory on the twelfth floor of the Thomas Starzl Biomedical Science Tower in Pittsburgh was deserted, save for one lonely figure suffering from insomnia.

April had returned to her studies at Harvard, but at least Tom had the feeling of satisfaction that came from a renewed relationship with her. He had his own studies and duties to try and focus on, but somehow he felt more comfortable satiating his scientific curiosities alone at the Pitt, as his university was affectionately called.

But it wasn't only certain individuals both at school and at work that he would rather not have to see and deal with.

He was also hiding from facing his nightmares.

At least now he had some pleasant thoughts of April to rally against the evil genius loci that had been inhabiting his thoughts of late. All to readily, his meditation turned to self reproach; as his reflection began to dwell on his own idleness, his paralysis of soul which was gaining on him. And of the night which seemed to grow more dense until it even began to crowd out the day.

The unwelcome chime of his phone ringing interrupted his concentration. In the midst of his dejected reflection, he was disinclined to answer, but when he saw the display read 'Gwen,' that unwavering dedication to an ideal made it impossible for him not to pick up. Also the fact that she was calling at such an unearthly hour added unease to his mood.

"I'm sorry to call you like this, but I'm in New York, and we need you to give more attention to your duties with Oscorp."

"'We' need, or you need?"

"C'mon, Tom, don't be a bastard about this."

"I'm not sure it even matters. I'm on my to getting kicked out of Oscorp."

"Will you just meet up with me? I'd much rather talk all this out face to face. Plus I want to see you."

"I'm sure that can be arranged."

The following day, Tom and Gwen met for lunch at an old pizzeria that they liked in Brooklyn. Tom was loath to admit it, but he was very happy to see his old friend and partner. But at the same time he felt that some kind of scolding was due to be carried out. Gwen, for her part, turned up the charm to irresistible levels.

"So we've been able to get together at last," she said, hugging him. "I have missed you so damn much. I always knew I had a treasure in a partner like you, but never more than now. If you had any idea what I've had to endure when it comes to lab associates, you'd be on the first plane to Tehran. And can you believe that some of them don't appreciate my little rituals? Obviously what is the first thing you need to do on entering the lab?" She looked into Tom's eyes, who was trying his best not to betray his inner feelings.

Finally he couldn't help himself. "You have to put the coffee on."

"Before talking to anyone, correct?"

"Correct."

"Well some just don't get that. They insist on coming into my office or my station, and pestering me with sometimes the most inane conversation or questions. I mean, what happened to human decency?"

"I don't know."

"Well! You may not completely understand. You're still working in a somewhat civilized country. But c'mon! Why are you looking so sad and burnt out? Surely you're got something interesting going on with your work. You're still studying at McGowan, right? And you are the head of Oscorp Labs! That is pretty exciting."

Tom didn't reply.

"Well, some of your potential is not being challenged. I'll have a word with Mark Iraklis when I see him."

When Tom still didn't say anything, Gwen resumed with an expression that gradually clouded over. "You don't seem very glad to see me," she said, sounding hurt.

Still without looking directly at her, Tom shook his head a little, opened his mouth as if to say something, then stopped himself, obviously debating the argument in his head.

Gwen remained silent for a moment, then exclaimed, "Look! I know you and I know how to cheer you up. Your problem stems from idleness. You have depression caused by ennui. You are being overcome by inertia. Do you understand what I'm saying? You just need-"

"I don't want your advice, Gwen!" Tom suddenly exploded. He raised his hand as if to say more, but gave up, as if he couldn't command the energy.

Gwen's eyes hardened. "You don't want my advice? Well you damn well need it, you son of a bitch. I'm here because I need your help, but also because you need mine. Look at me. Look me in the face. _I'm_ asking you to do this. Your Gwen. This is your Gwen, asking you to do something for her. No, don't turn away. You keep looking at me and look me in the eyes, and tell me what's eating you because…" Gwen's voice trailed off, sounding like she was starting to choke up. She quickly tried to wipe away a tear before Tom noticed.

Throughout her little speech, Tom tried to look at her, but his discomfort showed through until he could not maintain eye contact any longer. "I… I can't," he said softly.

"You can't what?" Gwen yelled. Tom just shook his head. Gwen stopped sniffling and her voice took on a commanding tone. "Look. I am sick and tired of your attitude with me. Don't hate the messenger when you knew yourself that if you wanted to keep Mariah safe, then you needed to put some distance between you and her. I'm sorry that things turned out that way, but you have got to get a grip and get over your anger."

"It's not just you. I'm angry with everyone these days."

"Listen," she said softly, touching his hand. "I've always known that you have the potential to not only be a leader in the scientific community, but also to have a beautiful soul. Don't throw it all away over some disappointment. I know. I get that you are hurting. But instead of curling up into the emotional fetal position, try channeling those emotions to lift you to your potential. You can achieve unparalleled brilliance."

Tom looked at her. "I don't think I can."

Gwen lightly stroked his fingers. "Listen to me. The soul which loves and suffers is in a state of sublimity. You have what it takes. You just need the motivation."

Tom smiled a little. "Okay. So why am I doing whatever this is?"

Gwen took his hand in hers. "Do it for me, as a friend."

"Well, what is it already? Tell me what you want me to do."

Gwen bit her lip, seeming to hesitate, as though after having successfully convinced Tom she was waging an inward conflict trying to convince herself. At last she appeared to come to a decision. "You've still got some rage inside, but so much the worse, I don't care. I believe in you."

"Yes, okay. But just tell me." Tom smiled a little more and sounded a bit like his old self.

"It's Mark Iraklis."

"Oh? What about him?"

"He's blind."

"I'm sorry to hear that. And?"

"He thinks that you can help him to see again."

"What? Why in the world would he think that?"

"Because I told him that you could."

"Gwen, that's crazy. We got lucky with the transgenic breakthrough, and I was working on the lifetime achievements of two brilliant scientists. I don't know if I'll ever be able to duplicate that kind of discovery."

"All I'm asking is that you try."

Tom stared at Gwen, wide-eyed, smiled and then he began to look up in thought. "If we _could_ come up with something, that would potentially help a lot of people."

Gwen could see the wheels starting to spin at top speed in Tom's head, and she knew that the prospect of a fascinating puzzle had finally hooked him. She withdrew her hand and went on in a tone which could have rent the heart of an observer, but which did not even graze Tom in his state of self-pity and introspection. "Well, I see that that's cheered you up."

A cloud suddenly swept across Tom's brow, and this time he reached out and grabbed her wrist. "When I ended things with Mariah, you said that we couldn't be together because, well, I don't really know why."

"Tom, please," Gwen almost begged.

"That's fine, but just help me to understand."

"I seriously do not want to have that conversation again."

"Well neither do I, but-"

"Listen. The truth is that girlfriends, they come and go. But good friendships, those are harder to come by, and when they do, they last forever." She peered into his eyes.

Tom gazed back at her, and then shook his head with a laugh. "When you're right, you're right," he shrugged. "But answer me this: why do I still feel that you can talk me into doing absolutely anything? It's kind of scary actually; like I don't have control over my life."

Gwen smiled warmly at him. "Are any of us in control, really? When we think we are, then that's when the delusion comes. Science has succeeded in so far analyzing man that we know that what is called freedom of choice is in fact merely a chimera, an illusion. Now are we just going to keep sitting here being all syrupy or are we going to get to work?"


	11. The Punisher's Friends

The Punisher's Friends

Frank Castle rolled off the couch to which he had been unceremoniously deported the previous day and was pleased to find that he could walk swiftly across the room without becoming dizzy. A bit of bounce had returned to his step and he found he could lift the left arm to shoulder level with only a moderate degree of agony. He consumed a twenty-ounce steak that Lisa Yau had so graciously purchased for him and confessed to her that the taste of red meat made him feel ready to wrestle a grizzly.

Perhaps because of that remark, Lisa decided that It was time for Castle to get a little fresh air, so she invited him to accompany her on her way to school. Castle had to pass on the offer, but agreed that today he was going to venture outside. First he took a lingering shower and gingerly tested his shoulder with a series of limbering-up exercises.

Later that morning, Angela walked into his room and found him performing push-ups on the living room floor and gritting his teeth against the pain in the shoulder.

"I hear you'll be going out today," she said. "I suppose you know what you're doing. Just make sure nobody follows you back here. I'm as protective as a she-wolf when it comes to my business, my home, and my girls."

Castle paused and nodded. But he knew precisely what he was doing. He had to get that shoulder functioning and quickly. Some deeply welling instinct had been working at him all morning; he knew that his time had come.

He retrieved his bag from where Lisa had been storing it and brought it into the large bedroom. Opening it, he sucked in his breath as he checked the tungsten-lined false bottom. It was intact, and so were the contents- the hot little 9mm Beretta automatic he'd picked up in France, plus the side-leather and a stack of spare clips. He double-checked the Beretta's action, then slid in a clip and chamber in a round at the ready, hesitated momentarily, then added the silencer to the muzzle and carefully installed the piece in the side-leather. Then he got into fresh clothing and buckled on the shoulder rig, wincing and readjusting the strap to clear his wound.

Slipping out the back of the store into an alley, Castle doubled back to the street to do a little recon. He casually made his way across the street to a magazine stand. Slowly flipping pages, he took in faces of passers-by and people in cars, entering and cross-checking against his inner mug file. Sliding his shades down the bridge of his nose and pretending to get a really good look at a two page spread of Barbara Fialho, he squinted over the magazine at two toughs in a brown 1997 Cadillac Eldorado.

Everything about these two goons was wrong; their car, the way they slouched in their seats, the way they chewed gum as they gave everyone around them dirty looks. These were definitely a couple of wise-guys out on the town hunting for traces of some injured prey - the Punisher - and they were frighteningly close. Close enough to be a problem. Castle paid for his magazine and pulled his Yankees cap down over his eyes. The hunters were about to become the hunted, and it was time for Castle's morning errands to get rolling.

Stealthily putting some distance between himself and his new hideout, Castle decided to make an appearance at an old school Italian joint called Original Vincent's where he could grab a quick and tasty lunch. It was frequented by the original Mafia, at one time being Little Italy but now the neighbourhood had been absorbed into Chinatown. As the waitress took his order for seafood with penne vodka, he gave the room a scan.

As Castle tipped his head back for a sip of a blood orange Martini, he glimpsed two obvious mafiosos as they walked in. Looking around, the maitre'd escorted them to their usual table. The first part of Castle plan was in motion.

Castle's hand quivered next to his holster under his sport coat, ready for action, but the two mobsters seemed blissfully unaware of his presence. As they dug into their Lobster Ravioli's, Castle figured he might as well enjoy his meal as well.

"Patience is a virtue," he said to himself, as he paused to savour the truly outstanding vodka sauce slathering his Penne.

As Castle was putting the finishing touches on his meal, his patience was finally rewarded. A Japanese man wearing a black trench coat entered and approached the bar. "Here we go," thought Castle. He continued watching as the guy slammed back a couple of shots of saki and then turned his attention to the wise guys at their table. He reached into his inside pocket, but instead of pulling out his .357 that he was obviously carrying, he invited himself to sit down with the mafiosos holding out his cell phone.

They began whispering to each other as Castle wiped his mouth with a napkin and dropped a $50 on the table. Lunchtime was over.

Castle stood up and stretched so that the two mobsters could get a good look at him. They stared up at him and Castle met their gaze unflinchingly, but they returned to their pastas and their business with their Yakuza associate. "You've got to be kidding me," he thought.

Finally Castle knocked over his water glass with a bang, drawing the attention of the whole restaurant. Feeling the mobster's eyes on him as he fussed over the mess he had made, when the waitress came to assist, Castle took off his sport coat, exposing his tatted arms from his shirtsleeves. As he flashed his bright red Jerusalem cross on his arm, one of the mobsters paused with the fork still in his mouth, as his eyes slowly followed up the arm to take in the grinning face of it's owner.

Castle nodded and then headed for the bathroom. The mobsters threw their napkins on the table. "We'll be right back," one of them explained to the confused Yakuza, as they jumped to their feet to pursue The Punisher. As they rushed to the bathroom as well, they hefted their Magnums as the second one put in a call to the Commissione as to their location and their great luck in stumbling across their most wanted enemy.

As they burst through the doors of the men's room, the lead mafioso died without even knowing it as Castle's Beretta putted softly through its silencer, a high-velocity Parabellum angling in through the bridge of the nose and displaying several cubic inches of brain tissue in painless and instant death.

Castle leaped forward, directing the falling corpse toward the sinks. The instant the second man cleared the doorway, Castle took a single step forward and with both hands clasping the neck, he crushed his fingers into the throat and yanked the man diagonally into him. No cry emerged; the mafioso's windpipe was choked of all air supply. He went limp as Castle wheeled his body toward the stall and sat him unconscious on the crapper.

Turning back to the corpse, he pulled the suit coat up over the guy's head and stuffed in a hand towel to lessen the spread of blood, tying the bundle into place with the coat sleeves. He then placed that guy in the next stall with his head hanging in the toilet. Always leave one survivor to tell the tale. That was the ancient way to strike terror in the hearts of your enemies.

Castle calmly walked back to his table and sat down, as the Yakuza impatiently looked at his watch. Sighing in frustration, he got up while Castle discreetly followed.

Castle followed the black trench coated goon through a dingy part of chinatown on East Broadway, past some pay by the hour joints and convenience stores selling gaudy souvenirs. But then Castle's senses went into high alert, where in an otherwise dingy neighbourhood, standing like beacons to the trained eye stood two immaculate, grand redbrick buildings with blacked-out limos parked outside. Castle kept strolling past the building as black trench coat walked up to another Yakuza acting as lookout, then proceeded to enter through a little door where Castle caught a glimpse of a dark circle of mah-jong players. Castle smiled to himself as he approached the guard.

"I'm with him," he said in Japanese, motioning to the closing door. "I'm here to play."

As Castle was ushered through the door, he made his way past the mahjong tables until he found a sliding paper door, where he found the room for the dice game known as Cho-han.

"You're here to play?" the tattooed and bare chested dealer asked.

"Yes," Castle responded, immediately sitting down on the tatami rice mat. The dealer rolled the dice under the bamboo cup as their game got under way. Castle looking around at the other players, he finally found who he was looking for. An old man, sat with his head down, whispering suggestions to a younger guy. As Castle lost more and more money, the old man consistently kept cleaning up.

As Castle watched, a yakuza approached. "So masseur, your luck seems to be holding on. You're not cheating, are you old man?"

The old masseur just chuckled to this and looked feeble. The dealer put the dice and the cup down and the old man's head snapped to attention. "Hey! The dice don't sound the same!"

The dealer sneered at this accusation. "Damned masseur! What the hell did you say?"

With lightning speed, the old man's walking stick opened up to reveal a cane sword. Before anyone could react, he flicked the sword forward to slice through the dealers arm. While everyone's attention was the disembodied hand as it flipped through the air to then fall again on the Cho-han table, Castle jumped to his feet and hit the light switch. In the dark, the blind old man executed the crooked dealers as well as the Yakuza guards.

Castle headed toward the rear exit, his 9mm Beretta clearing a path, cutting through bodies and sending the fearful to the ground with their hands over their heads. They ran out to the dark streets where they ran through the shadows until they had a safe distance from that gambling house of carnage.

The old man turned his head toward Frank Castle. "It has been many years, Ronin Frank."

Castle put his fist in his palm. "It is always an honour, Sensei."


	12. Salomé Furtado

Salomé Furtado

Tom walked into Kaffe 1668 and immediately zeroed in on where Adam was sitting. He waved to him, but Adam responded only with a nod, as he seemed to be involved in a fairly intense conversation with his table mate.

Once Tom had bought his coffee and sidled up to where they were sitting, Adam paused their discussion to make introductions. "Tom, I'd like you to meet Takeo. Tak, this is an old friend of mine. We go way back. And Tom, Takeo is a successful designer and landscape architect."

"I can see that you guys are in the middle of talking about something important. Don't mind me," apologized Tom.

"Not that important," exclaimed Takeo, with a lilting California surfer accent. "We're just talking about women, that's all."

"Women, and the trouble they put us through," said Adam, raising his pint. Both of them were drinking beer.

"Here, here," announced Takeo, taking a draught.

"So let me hear this again," continued Adam, chuckling. "The big guy really came at you with a pistol?"

"Yeah," said Takeo, still looking scared. "And he was yelling all kinds of stuff and threats at me. I mean I could tell they were threats even though I could only understand like, half of it. I mean, I took Spanish 101, but whatever that dude was saying I wasn't digging. But I did get the message loud and clear. Stay out of here if you want to live."

"Woah, somebody was threatening you?" jumped in Tom, his senses starting to tingle. "Did you call the cops, or do you want us to take care of it?" The bones in Tom's neck spontaneously started to crack as his muscles flexed, ready for action.

Takeo just looked confused and stared back and forth from Adam to Tom, like he was just seeing Tom for the first time. Then he looked pleadingly to Adam, who took him up on the unspoken request for assistance. "I don't think the cops will do anything, Tom. And I think I'm going to let it go as well," he said, leaning back and sniffing. "Tak was banging the big dude's wife and all."

Tom frowned, as Adam laughed heartily at his summation of the situation, while Takeo shook his head with annoyance. "You're supposed to be helping me. This isn't helpful."

"C'mon, Tak. You have to admit, it's pretty damn funny."

"Not from where I'm sitting. Gustavo has some clout. I could lose contracts over this."

"Then maybe you'll think of that the next time before making a cuckold out of an influential man."

"It shouldn't be that big of a deal. I mean everyone knows that he's sleeping around. I thought he'd be cooler than that."

"Well you thought wrong, bitch," said Adam, still laughing.

"C'mon. Maybe you can put in a word for me. Calm the big fatty down a little."

"I'll tell you what. I'm actually heading uptown to visit Salomé in the hospital-"

"Mé's in the hospital? What happened?"

"She checked herself in. It's the pain acting up in her back again. So I'll try to see if there's anything I can do."

"Thanks, Airdog. You're a true friend."

Tom and Adam left together and headed for the subway. "So you don't mind being a come with guy?" Adam asked.

"Not at all," Tom replied. "I don't mind hospitals. I'd even be curious to see if I can offer any observations. You really going to get in the middle of their affair?"

"Are you crazy? Hells no! There's no way I'm crossing Gustavo for Tak. He signed his own death warrant as far as I'm concerned. Besides…"

"Besides, what?"

Adam shook his head. "Nothing." Tom smiled. He didn't have to be a mind reader to surmise Adam's other misgivings about helping Salomé's lover. He was obviously into her too. Tom decided to let this deduction slide to be expounded upon for another convenient time.

On the way to the hospital, Adam stopped at a Mexican take-out joint for chiles rellenos that Salomé evidently had requested. Upon arrival at the Bellevue hospital, they made their way up to her room, where she cried out upon seeing her visitors. "Adán!" shouted the throaty voice from the hospital bed. "Look at your poor Salomka, falling all to pieces and dying. Please tell me you brought me something decent to eat." Salomé was wearing less bling than usual and instead had gone for an Aztec beaded necklace and earrings, while her hair was done up in her standard messy, goth style accentuated with a big yellow flower pinned in the side.

"Chile relleno, just like you wanted," Adam said, looking stunned, like he was just meeting his prom date.

"Did you go to the place my father likes?" she asked, tearing into the rellenos. She had an excellent appetite for a dying woman.

"Of course. Señor René went with me to that place you like in the West Village. He also sends his love."

"Did he look like he's been eating well?"

"I should say so. He walked out with the mushroom tacos heaped with guacamole."

"He didn't sit down to eat? I'm always telling him to relax and enjoy his meal. _Dios mío,_ the man's retired. Where's he running off to?"

"He was all dressed up. Maybe he had a date."

Salomé fixed him with her withering stare. "I wouldn't blame him for wanting a little action, now that mamá is gone. I just don't really want to hear about it." She fixed her killer gaze on Tom. "And I see you brought _Bandido el travieso._ Which is good because I'm having a party and I wanted to invite you. El Travieso, you can even bring a date if you want. Ex-lover. Current lover. Whatever you feel like coming out with."

Tom smiled uncomfortably. "Sounds great." Desperate to distract the conversation, he looked for a topic where he felt more at ease. "How are you feeling, Salomé? You're looking kind of flushed. Are they treating you well here?"

"These nurses are perfectly friendly, but the doctor is a real _pendejo._ Even when he does bother to come by, he barely looks at me. I could probably get sick and drop dead, and he would only learn about it if it was written on his chart."

"Why did you check yourself in?"

"Oh yeah, you're the one who wants to be a _médico_ , right? Well I'm your patient from the depths of hell."

"Tell me about it."

Salomé flashed her mirthless smile. "I have a complicated history, health wise. When I was a kid, I spent more time in the hospital than I did at home. Then when I was eighteen, I was in a terrible accident on the bus. I suffered broken bones and lacerations, and I still suffer from chronic pain. And this year, it seems like I've just had one fever after another. This week, my back was really bothering me, which is not unusual, but then my legs were also really sore. So I was thinking about seeing a doctor when I came down with this fever, so I decided to check into the hospital, to see if they could help me." Tom put his hand on Salomé's forehead. "Just get right in there. Don't wait for an invitation," she teased.

Tom looked a little flustered, but tried to focus on the patient. "It looks like they're giving you a broad-spectrum antibiotic," he remarked, looking at her IV drip. "How long have they been treating you with antibiotics for?"

"About 15 days."

"You'd think your fever would have broke by now. And how long have you had a fever for?"

"I've had this fever on and off for a while, as well as feeling tired and weak. Basically I've been feeling generally yucky for about a month now. It's been quite the year."

"So you said. What kind of fevers have you experienced?"

Salomé smiled. "I can't remember the last time someone took such a detailed history. I had this wicked fever about six months ago. I couldn't get out of bed, and we had to hire a nurse to bring me food and help me go to the toilet. I felt better after a couple of weeks, but I still get a lot of pain in my bones. Some days are worse than others."

Just then the nurse came in for her regular check. "Hey darlin'," she sang with a southern twang. "How we doin' today?"

"Things are looking up," she said cheerfully. "I got a world famous doctor here to come save my life," she said, winking at Tom.

Tom began to shake his head but Salomé shot him a look that clearly told him to shut up, as the nurse watched both of them suspiciously. But then the nurse blinked her long eyelashes and decided to play it cool. "And what has the famous doctor learned?"

Tom felt nervous. It was one thing to mess around with diagnosis as a hobby. But talking with an experienced professional was something else altogether. "Just trying to get a bit of an idea of her recent medical history." He turned to Salomé. "So it sounds like you had a bout with Chikungunya."

Salomé's eyes flashed. "Yes. That was it!"

"Chicken what?" asked the nurse.

"Chikungunya," Tom explained. "It's practically pandemic in certain countries in the Caribbean and Central America, and I'd heard it had started to make it's way through parts of Mexico and the southern States. I'm guessing you brought it from Mexico." Salomé's eyes narrowed to slits as she shot him a look of death.

"Is it contagious?" asked Adam.

"It's spread by mosquitos, so New York in December is probably the safest place to be. One good thing about being in the deep freeze, eh Salomé?" She still just glared at him. "Although I've heard that the after affects feel a lot like arthritis, so maybe the cold doesn't really help you with the aches in your bones. But Chikungunya recovery could explain your back pain."

"And my fever? I should mention that I also had Dengue a couple of months ago."

Tom smiled. "Now I see what you mean when you say you've had a bad year. You know, you really should sleep under a mosquito net."

" _Que grosero._ Thanks for the obvious, donkey. I do sleep under a net but the little bastards bite you all day and in the evening. _"_

Tom turned to the nurse. "Has she been tested for Malaria?"

"I don't think so. I'd have to double check her chart. But as a rule, we don't usually check for tropical diseases."

"Malaria!" Salomé cried.

"I know, that would suck. But you've already had the bad luck of getting Dengue and Chikungunya. All that's left for the mosquito borne trifecta is Malaria. Or Zika for that matter, but I don't think that would last much longer than a week. I'll see if I can get my partner to help me run some tests."

Tom was soon on the phone with Gwen. "So you must be calling me to tell you're ready to meet with Iraklis," she said.

"Not quite. But when you agree to do this favour for me, it will definitely move me in that direction."

"Sure," she said automatically. "Just name it."

"I need you to help me run some tests on a patient here at Bellevue."

The cheer went out of Gwen's voice. "You have another patient that you want me to help you with?"

Tom detected the ice-like tone, but wasn't sure what to make of it. So he just continued as if it was a normal request. "Yeah, she's been suffering from a low-grade intermittent fever, fatigue, and generalized weakness for about a month now, and the doctors here have made no progress."

" _She_? Of course it's a she. Let me guess. She's a young woman whom you just happened to befriend and now is in need of help that only _you_ can provide."

Tom was getting annoyed for this unexpected hostility. "Look. This is what we do. We help people that are sick. And I thought I could count on you." He was unsuccessful in his attempt to keep the hurt from his voice.

"If I agree, then you have to meet with Mark. There's no more dodging it. You'll owe me, and that's how you'll pay me back," was her phlegmatic response.

"Okay, then we have an agreement."

Tom and Gwen got to work on their tests and a workup for fever. They performed two blood smear exams for the malarial parasite, and both came back negative, ruling out Tom's first theory. Her antigen test was also negative for Malaria, but positive for dengue, which was what they expected. They performed many tests, and could not find any abnormality.

Gwen came up with the idea that she was anemic, but her tests for sickling and osmotic fragility were also negative. Soon it was getting late, they had next to nothing for a diagnosis, and tiredness and frustration started to come out. Finally, as they were both staring down their respective microscopes, Gwen just came out and said what was bothering her. "So who is she?"

"Who? The patient?"

"Duh. Who else would I be asking about?"

"Um, obviously. The patient. She's an artist. A friend of a friend."

Gwen scoffed. "You sure like to fall for the artists, don't you?"

Tom was getting irritated. "I didn't fall for her. I just happened to observe that she wasn't getting a proper diagnosis. Besides, she's married." He paused, then said, "Going for the married types is more your thing." As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Tom regretted it.

Gwen's head shot up, and she had that look like she was going to make him eat his microscope. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing. I don't know why I said it."

"I do. You've always resented me asking you for help for some reason. I think we can agree that I've done quite a bit to get you to where you are today."

Tom at this point was willing to do anything to placate the now angry Gwen. "You're right, and I'm sorry. I've taken you for granted."

"I don't understand why it's so hard for you to just agree to do even one little thing for me," she fumed.

"I don't know. I was being selfish and I am sorry. But you have my word. I will talk to Mark Iraklis, and I will give my full attention to helping him. Hey." He reached for her hand but she pulled away. "Listen. I do appreciate your support and your help. I couldn't do this without you. And I promise you that I will make it up to you."

Gwen didn't respond, but returned to her microscope. Finally she said, "Well, you're right about one thing. This is what we do, and I daresay we do it better than anyone else. You know, she has a very high level of LDH."

"Do you think she has a malignant cell tumour?"

"That's very rare. Did we test for HIV?"

"HIV and hepatitis tests were all negative."

"Anything to support the anemia theory?"

"She had dengue a couple of months ago. In rare cases, that can cause hemolytic anemia."

"Okay, let's look at what we got." Gwen walked over to a whiteboard, and added the new data. "Her haptoglobin measures were …?"

"Very low."

"Which is suggestive of sever hemolysis. How was the test for ANA and RA?"

"Both negative."

"So we can rule out any autoimmune diseases," she said, crossing those off the board. "Can we cross off any common infections? Yes. And hemalotogical conditions?"

"We ruled out iron deficiency because her hemoglobin electrophoresis was normal. And her protein electrophoresis showed a normal albumin/globulin ratio, with no presence of any M-band or cryoglobulins."

"Okay, that's all the normal," Gwen sighed, running her hand under her head scarf while trying to blink away her exhaustion. "Didn't we find anything that was off?"

Tom looked at his notes. "Her homocystein levels were high."

Gwen's eyes perked up. "Elevated homocysteine are usually caused by an inadequate intake of B vitamins. Okay, let's go over what we have, and please tell me that it's making sense. We have pyrexia, hemolytic anemia and thrombocytopenia," she said with the air of a professor teaching a class. "I think we can go with the provisional diagnosis of B12 deficiency, which we can treat with injections."

Tom nodded. "She could have developed the anemia from her bout with dengue, causing the deficiency of B12, which then further exacerbated the anemia. It works, and the treatment is easy and safe." He looked up at his partner, smiling. "Can I hug you, since you're such a genius?"

"I guess you may," she said with a grin.


End file.
